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UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS  LIBRARY  AT  URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 


L161— 0-1096 


MISUNDERSTOOD 


BY 

FLORENCE  MONTGOMERY, 

AUTHOR  OF 

VBKY  SIMPLE  STOBT,”  and  “ PEGGY  AND  OTHBB  TALES.” 

“thrown  together.” 


NEW  YORK: 

ANSON  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  & COMPANY, 

38  WEST  TWENTY-THIRD  STREET, 


NEW  VORUC.: 

EDWARD  O.  JENKINS,  ROBERT  RUTPER, 

Printer  and  StereotyPer  Binder^ 

ao  North  William  St,  116  and  118  East  14th  Street. 


IHE  HON.  MRS.  AUGUSTUS  LIDDEU 


r-H 

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TBE  FOLLOWING  STOBT 

IS 

StAitxitd, 


939969 


PREFACE. 


The  following  is  not  a child’s  story.  It 
is  intended  for  those  who  are  inter- 
ested in  children ; for  those  who  are  willing 
to  stoop  to  view  life  as  it  appears  to  a child, 
and  to  enter  for  half-an-hour  into  the  mani- 
fold small  interests,  hopes,  joys,  and  trials 
which  make  up  its  sum. 

It  has  been  thought  that  the  lives  of  chil- 
dren, as  known  by  themselves,  from  their 
own  little  point  of  view,  are  not  always  suf- 
ficiently realized;  that  they  are  sometimes 
overlooked  or  misunderstood ; and  to  throw 
some  light,  however  faint,  upon  the  subject, 
is  one  of  the  objects  of  this  little  story. 

So  much  of  it  has  been  gathered  from  ob- 
servation and  recollection,  that  the  author 
cannot  help  hoping  it  may  not  entirely  fail 
of  its  aim. 


s 

1 1 , 

, ^ ■* 

I.  " 

i ; . ; > 


..j 


■ ■ * 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


PART  /. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Ever  since  the  nursery  dinner  has  the 
rain  come  pouring  down  all  over  the 
fields  and  meadows,  the  lawns  and  gardens, 
the  roofs  and  gables  of  old  Wareham  Abbey, 
in  the  county  of  Sussex. 

Ever  since  the  cloth  was  cleared  away 
have  two  little  cuny  heads  been  pressed 
close  together  at  the  nursery  window,  and 
two  pair  of  eager  eyes  been  watching  the 
-louds  and  sky. 

What  a dreadful  wet  afternoon ! 1 1 is  so 

particularly  tiresome,  as  their  father  is  ex- 
pected home  to-day,  and  had  promised  the 

(7) 


8 


MISUNDMBSTOOD. 


two  little  brothers  that  they  should  come 
and  meet  him  at  the  station. 

There  would  be  no  room  for  Virginie  in 
the  dog-cart,  and  so,  if  they  promised  to  sit 
very  still,  and  not  stand  on  the  wheel  to  get 
in,  or  jump  out  before  the  carriage  had  stop- 
ped, or  do  anything  else  equally  extraordi- 
nary, they  were  to  have  been  trusted  to  old 
t’eter,  the  coachman,  and  what  fun  that 
would  have  been ! 

To  get  away  from  Virginie  for  so  long 
was  the  height  of  human  enjoyment.  She 
seemed  to  them  a being  created  on  purpose 
to  interfere  with  every  plan  of  enjoyment, 
to  foresee  danger  where  they  only  saw  fun, 
and  so  bring  the  shadow  of  her  everlasting 
“ Ne  faites  pas  ceci,  ne  faites  pas  cela,”  across 
the  sunny  path  of  their  boyish  schemes  and 
pastimes. 

Poor  Virginie!  if  she  had  been  brought 
to  the  bar  of  their  young  judgments,  she 
would  have  been  at  once  condemned  with- 
out any  reference  to  extenuating  circum- 
stances. And  yet  she  was,  in  the  main  a 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


9 


goctd,  well-meaniiij^  woman,  but  unfortu- 
natel)  gifted  with  “ nerves and  the  respon. 
sibility  of  the  entire  charge  of  the  children 
of  a widower,  who  was  a great  deal  away 
from  home,  made  her  ivfe  an  anxious  one, 
more  especially  as  they  were  a pair  of  the 
most  reckless  creatures  that  "iver  were  born — 
fearless  of  danger,  heedless  of  consequences, 
and  deaf  to  entreaty  or  remonstrance. 

Little  Miles,  the  youngest,  as  she  often 
told  their  father,  was  well  enough  alone ; 
she  could  manage  him  perfectly,  for,  being 
only  four  years  old,  he  was  amenable  to  au- 
thority ; but  “ Monsieur  Humphrey !” 

Words  always  failed  Virginie  at  this 
juncture.  She  could  only  throw  up  her 
hands,  and  raise  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  with 
a suppressed  exclamation. 

Sir  Everard  Buncombe  was  a member  of 
Parliament,  and  during  the  session  was  al- 
most entirely  in  London,  so  that  beyond  his 
Saturday  to  Monday  at  the  Abbey,  his 
children  saw  but  little  of  him  this  time  of 
the  year. 


CO 


MISUNDMMSTOOD. 


During  these  flying  visits  he  was  over 
whelmed  with  complaints  of  all  M.  Hum 
phrey  had  done  during  the  past  week:  how 
he  would  climb  impossible  trees  and  jump 
from  impossible  heights;  how  he  had  gone 
into  the  stables  right  under  the  horses’ 
heels,  or  taken  a seat  in  the  kennel,  with 
the  blood- hound ; how  narrowly  he  had 
escaped  tumbling  over  the  ha-ha  one  day, 
and  slipping  into  the  pond  the  next ; in  fact 
there  was  no  end  to  his  misdemeanors. 

But  the  point  on  which  Virginie  harped 
was,  that  he  led  his  little  brother  into  all 
sorts  of  mischief ; for  what  Humphrey  did. 
Miles  would  do  too,  and  where  Humphrey 
went.  Miles  was  ready  to  follow. 

It  was  quite  another  thing,  as  Virginie 
urged,  for  Miles.  Humphrey  was  proof 
against  colds,  coughs,  and  accidents  of  all 
kinds ; but  little  Miles  was  physically  weak- 
er, and  had  moreover  a tendency  to  a deli- 
cate chest  and  to  croup ; so  that  cold  winds, 
and  wet  feet,  and  over-exertion,  could  not 
be  too  carefully  avoided. 


MIS  UNDEBSTOOD. 


II 


Timid  and  gentle  by  nature,  clinging  and  af- 
fectionate by  disposition,  he.  was  just  the  child 
a father  delights  in,  and  to  him  Sir  Ever- 
ard’s  affections  were  almost  wholly  given. 

Lady  Buncombe  had  observed  her  hus- 
band’s partiality  for  his  younger  boy  for 
some  time  before  her  death,  and  had  more 
than  once  taxed  him  with  it. 

“ Miles  is  such  a little  coaxing  thing,”  he 
answered,  taking  the  child  up  in  his  arms, 
and  stroking  the  little  curly  head  which  nest- 
led at  once  so  contentedly  down  on  his 
shoulder.  “ If  I took  Humphrey  up,  he 
would  struggle  to  get  down,  and  be  climb 
ing  over  the  tables  and  chairs.” 

“ Humphrey  is  three  years  older,”  argued 
Lady  Buncombe ; “ you  could  not  expect 
him  to  sit  so  still  as  a baby  not  yet  two : but 
he  is  quite  as  affectionate  as  Miles,  in  a dif- 
ferent way.” 

It  may  be  so,”  Sir  Everard  returned 
“ but  it  is  very  engaging  when  a little  crea- 
ture clings  to  one  in  this  way,  and  sits  fol 
hours  in  one’s  lap.” 


12 


MISUNDERSTOOD 


l^dy  Duncombe  did  not  answer,  but  hei 
eye  wandered  from  the  fair-haired  baby 
and  rested  on  her  eldest  boy,  who  for  three 
years  had  been  her  only  child.  To  her,  at 
least,  he  was  an  object  of  pride  and  pleas- 
ure. She  gloried  in  his  manly  ways,  his  un- 
tiring spirits  and  activity ; and  loved  his 
rough  caresses  quite  as  well  as  the  more 
coaxing  ways  of  his  baby  brother. 

How  she  delighted  to  see  him  come  rush- 
ing headlong  into  the  room,  and  make  one 
bound  into  her  lap,  even  if  he  did  knock 
down  a chair  or  so  on  his  way,  upset  her 
work-box  and  its  contents,  and  dirty  the 
sofa  with  his  muddy  boots.  What  then ! 
Did  not  his  eager  kisses  rain  upon  her 
cheek?  Were  not  his  dear  rough  arms 
round  her  neck  ? Did  she  not  know  what  a 
loving  heart  beat  under  his  apparent  heed- 
lessness and  forgetfulness  ? What  if  he  for- 
got every  injunction  and  every  promise,  if 
he  did  not  forget  her  ! What  if  he  took  heed 
of  no  one  and  nothing,  if  her  look  and  nei 
Kiss  were  aways  sought  and  cared  for  1 


/ 


MISUI^  DERSTOOD. 

Oh ! it  was  a sad  day  for  little  Humphrey 
Duncombe  when  that  mother  was  taken 
away  from  him  : when  the  long,  wasting  ill- 
ness ended  in  death : when  the  hollow  eye, 
which  to  the  last  had  rested  on  him,  closed 
for  ever  on  this  world ; and  the  thin,  trans- 
parent hands  were  folded  for  the  last  time 
on  the  breast  where  he  should  never  again 
hide  his  curly  head,  and  sob  out  his  confes- 
sions and  repentance. 

Sir  Everard,  overwhelmed  by  the  blow 
which  had  fallen  on  him,  hardly  saw  his 
children  during  the  early  days  of  his  be- 
reavement. 

When  he  did,  he  was  surprised  to  find 
Humphrey  much  the  same  as  ever;  still 
noisy  and  heedless,  still  full  of  mischief,  and 
apparently  forgetful  of  what  had  happened. 

‘‘  He  has  not  much  heart,''  was  his  inward 
comment,  as  he  wrtched  the  little  figure,  in 
its  deep  mourning,  chasing  the  young  lambs 
in  the  meadow. 

S*r  Everard  saw  the  boy  to  all  appearance 
the  same,  because  he  saw  him  in  his  mo- 


2 


14 


MIS  UKDjUMSTOUD. 


ments  of  forgetfulness,  when  nature  and 
childhood  had  asserted  their  rights,  and  the 
buoyancy  of  the  boy’s  disposition  had  en- 
abled  him  to  throw  off  the  memory  of  his 
sorrow:  but  he  did  not  see  him  when  the 
sense  of  his  loss  was  upon  him  ; did  not  see 
the  face  change,  when  the  recollection  came 
over  him;  did  not  hear  the  familiar  name 
half  uttered,  and  then  choked  by  a sob.  He 
did  not  see  the  rush  to  the  drawing-room, 
with  some  new  treasure,  some  new  plan  to 
be  unfolded — and  the  sudden  stop  at  the 
door,  as  the  thought  swept  over  him  that 
on  the  well-known  sofa  there  is  now  no 
mother’s  smile  awaiting  him,  no  ever-ready 
ear  to  listen  and  sympathize,  no  loving  kiss, 
no  responsive  voice:  and  the  low  sob  of 
pain,  the  listless  drop  of  the  arms  to  the  side, 
and  the  rush  away  into  the  open  air,  away 
and  away,  anywhere,  to  escape  from  the 
grief  and  the  longing,  and  the  blank  sense 
of  desolation. 

Only  He,  who  dwelling  in  the  highest 
heaven,  yet  vouchsafes  to  behold  the  lowest 


MISUNDMBSTOOD. 


IS 

creature  here  upon  earth,  knew  what  waa 
in  the  heart  of  the  boy ; as  no  one  but  He 
saw  the  pillow  wet  with  tears,  and  heard 
the  cry  breaking  forth  in  the  dead  of  the 
night  from  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  poor 
little  orphaned  heart.  “ Oh,  mother ! moth- 
er ! what  shall  I do  without  you !” 

All  this  had  happened  nearly  two  years 
before  the  day  of  which  I am  speaking, 
when  the  rain  was  acting  its  time-hackneyed 
part  before  the  two  little  spectators  at  the 
window. 

It  had  faded  out  of  little  Miles’  mind  as  if 
it  had  never  been;  he  could  not  even  re- 
member his  mother ; but  in  the  mind  of  the 
elder  boy  her  memory  was  still,  at  times, 
fresh  and  green. 

Weeks  and  months  might  pass  without 
his  thoughts  dwelling  on  her,  but  all  of  a 
udden,  a flower,  a book,  or  some  little  thing 
that  had  belonged  to  her,  would  bring  it  all 
back,  and  then  the  little  chest  would  heave, 
the  curly  head  would  droop,  and  the  merry 
orown  eyes  be  dimmed  by  a rush  of  tears. 


l6  MiaUNDBBSTOOD. 

There  as  a full-length  picture  in  the  now 
unused  drawing-room  of  Lady  DuncombC; 
with  Humphrey  in  her  arms ; and  at  these 
times,  or  when  he  was  in  some  trouble  with 
Virginie,  the  boy  would  steal  in  there,  and  lie 
curled  up  on  the  floor  in  the  darkened  room ; 
putting  himself  in  the  same  attitude  that  he 
was  in  in  the  picture,  and  then  try  to  fancy 
he  felt  her  arms  round  him,  and  her  shoulder 
against  his  head. 

There  were  certain  days  when  the  room 
was  scrubbed  and  dusted ; when  the  heavy 
shutters  wxre  opened,  and  the  daylight 
streamed  upon  the  picture.  Then  the  two 
little  brothers  might  be  seen  standing  before 
it,  while  the  elder  detailed  to  the  younger 
all  he  could  remember  about  her. 

Miles  had  the  greatest  respect  and  ad- 
miration for  Humphrey.  A boy  of  seven, 
who  wears  knickerbockers,  is  always  an 
object  of  veneration  to  one  of  four,  who  is 
as  yet  limited  to  blouses : but  Miles'  imagina- 
tion could  not  soar  beyond  the  library  and 
dining-room;  and  ne  could  not  remember 


MiSVNDERSfOOD. 


tf 


tiie  drawing-room  otherw.se  than  a closed 
room  ; so  his  respect  grew  and  intensified  as 
he  listened  to  Humphrey’s  glowing  descrip, 
tion  of  the  past  glories  of  the  house,  when 
(he  drawing-room  was  one  blaze  of  light, 
when  there  were  muslin  curtains  in  the 
windows,  and  chintz  on  all  the  chairs ; and 
mother  lay  on  the  sofa,  with  her  work-table 
by  her  side. 

Dim  and  shadowy  was  the  little  fellow's 
idea  of  the  “ mother  ” of  whom  his  brother 
always  spoke  in  softened  tones  and  with 
glistening  eyes ; but  that  she  was  something 
very  fair  and  holy  he  was  quite  sure. 

Deep  was  his  sense  of  his  inferiority  to 
Humphrey  in  this  respect;  and  a feeling 
akin  to  shame  would  steal  over  him  when 
one  of  their  long  conversations  would  be 
abruptly  put  an  end  to  by  Humphrey’s 
quick,  contemptuous  “ It’s  no  use  trying  tO] 
make  you  understand,  because  you  don’ 
remember  her.” 

A very  wistful  look  would  come  over  the 
pretty  little  face  on  these  occasions,  and  he 


|8  MISUNDERSTOOD. 

would  humbly  admit  his  great  degradation 

It  was  Miles’  admiration  for  his  brothel 
that  was  the  bane  of  Virginie’s  life.  Timid 
by  nature,  Miles  became  bold  when  Hum 
phrey  led  the  way ; obedient  and  submissive 
oy  himself,  at  Humphrey’s  bidding  he  would 
set  Virginie  at  defiance,  and  for  the  time  be 
as  mischievous  as  he. 

That  “ I’union  fait  la  force,”  Virginie  had 
long  since  discovered,  to  the  ruin  of  her 
nerves  and  temper. 

And  now  Virginie  has  several  times  sug- 
gested that  if  Humphrey  will  submit  to  a 
water-proof  coat,  and  goloshes,  he  may  go 
and  meet  his  father  at  the  station;  and 
Humphrey  has  consented  to  come  to  terms 
if  Miles  may  go  too. 

But  here  Virginie  is  firm.  No  amount  of 
wrapping  up  would  prevent  Miles  catching 
cold  on  so  damp  and  rainy  a day,  a?  she 
knows  well,  by  fatal  experience ; so  the  fiat 
has  gone  forth,  either  Humphrey  will  gQ 
alone,  or  both  will  stay  at  home. 


MISUNDEMSTOOD. 


19 


“ Don’t  go,”  pleaded  little  Miles,  as  they 
pressed  their  faces  against  the  window  ; “it 
will  be  so  dull  all  alone  with  Yirginie.” 

“ She’s  a cross  old  thing,”  muttered  Hum 
phrey ; “ but  never  mind.  Miles,  I won’t  go 
without  you,  and  we’ll  count  the  rain- 
drops on  the  window  to  make  the  time  pass 
quick.” 

This  interesting  employment  had  the  de- 
sired effect,  and  the  next  half-hour  soon  slip- 
ped by.  Indeed,  it  was  so  engrossing,  that 
the  dog-cart  came  up  the  avenue,  and  was 
nearly  at  the  hall  door,  before  the  little  boys 
perceived  it. 

“ Qu’est-ce  que  c’est  done  ! ” exclaimed 
Virginie,  startled  by  Humphrey’s  jump  from 
the  window-sill  to  the  flnnr. 

“ C’est  mon  pere,”  was  all  the  information 
he  vouchsafed  her,  as  he  rushed  out  of  the 
room. 

“ M.  votre  p^re ! Attendez  done  que  j« 
vous  arrange  un  peu  les  cheveux.” 

She  spoke  to  the  winds:  nothing  was 
neard  of  Humphrey  but  sundry  bumps  and 


20 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


jumps  n the  distance,  which  told  of  hii 
rapid  descent  down  the  stairs. 

The  more  tardy  Miles  was  caught  and 
brushed,  in  spite  of  his  struggles,  and  then  he 
was  off  to  join  his  brother. 

He  reached  the  hall  door  just  as  the  car- 
riage drove  up,  and  the  two  little  figures 
jumped  and  capered  about,  while  a tall, 
dark  gentleman  divested  himself  of  his 
mackintosh  and  umbrella,  and  then  came  up 
the  steps  into  the  house. 

He  stooped  down  to  kiss  the  eager  faces. 
“Well,  my  little  fellows,  and  how  are  you 
both?  No  bones  broken  since  last  week?  No 
new  bruises  and  bumps,  eh  ? ” 

They  were  so  taken  up  with  their  father, 
that  they  did  not  perceive  that  he  was  not 
alone,  but  that  another  gentleman  had  got 
out  of  the  dog-cart,  till  Sir  Everard  said — 

“ Now  go  and  shake  hands  with  that  gen- 
tleman. I wonder  if  you  know  who  he  is  ?” 

Humphrey  looked  up  into  the  young 
man’s  face,  and  said,  while  his  color  deep- 
ened— 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


21 


“ I th.nk  you  are  my  Uncle  Charlie,  who 
came  to  see  us  once  a long  time  ago  before 
you  went  to  sea,  and  before ” 

“ Quite  right,”  said  Sir  Everard,  shortly ; 
“ I did  not  think  you  would  have  remem- 
bered him.  I daresay,  Charlie,  Humphrey 
has  not  altered  very  much  ; but  this  little  fel- 
low was  quite  a baby  when  you  went  away,” 
he  added,  taking  Miles  up  in  his  arms,  and 
looking  at  his  brother-in-law  for  admiration. 

“ What  a likeness !”  exclaimed  Uncle  Char- 
lie. 

Sir  Everard  put  the  child  down  with  a sigh. 

“ Like  in  more  ways  than  one,  I am  afraid. 
Look  here,”  pointing  to  the  delicate  tracery 
of  the  blue  veins  on  the  forehead,  and  the 
flush  on  the  fair  cheek. 

Humphrey  had  been  listening  intently  to 
this  conversation,  and  his  father  being  once 
more  occupied  with  kissing  Miles,  he  ad- 
vanced to  his  uncle,  and  put  his  hand  con- 
hdingly  in  his. 

“You  are  a nice  little  man,”  said  Uncle 
Charlie,  laying  his  other  hand  on  the  curly 


22 


MIS  UNLESS  TOOD. 


head ; “ vve  were  always  good  friends^  Hum 
phrey.  But,”  he  added,  half  to  himself,  aa 
he  turned  up  the  bright  face  to  his,  and 
gazed  at  it  intently  for  a moment,  “ you  are 
not  a bit  like  your  mother.” 

The  dressing-gong  now  sounded,  and  the 
little  boys  proceeded  to  their  father’s  room, 
to  help  or  hinder  him  with  his  toilette. 

Miles  devoted  himself  to  the  carpet-bag, 
in  expectation  of  some  tempting  paper  par- 
cel ; while  Humphrey’s  attentions  were  giv- 
en to  first  one  and  then  the  other  of  the 
articles  he  was  extracting  from  the  pocket 
of  the  coat  Sir  Everard  had  just  thrown  off. 

A suspicious  click  made  the  baronet  turn 
round. 

' What  have  you  got  hold  of,  Humphrey  ?” 

An  open  pocket-knife  dropped  from  the 
boy’s  hand  he  had  just  succeeded  in  open- 
ing tne  two  blades,  and  was  in  the  act  of 
tryir^  the  edges  on  his  thumb  nail. 

Failing  in  that  experiment,  his  restless 
fingers  strayed  to  the  dressing-table,  and  an 
oniinous  silence  ensued. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


23 

“ Humphrey,”  shouted  his  father,  ‘ put  my 
razor  down.” 

In  the  glass  he  had  caught  sight  of  a well- 
soaped  face,  and  spoke  just  in  time  to  stop 
the  operation. 

Punishment  always  follows  sin,  and  Hum- 
phrey was  dispatched  to  the  nursery  to 
have  his  face  sponged  and  dried. 

By  taking  a slide  down  the  banisters, 
however,  he  made  up  for  lost  time,  and 
arrived  at  the  library-door  at  the  same  time 
as  his  father  and  brother. 

Uncle  Charlie  was  standing  by  the  win- 
dow, ready  dressed  ; and  the  gong  sound- 
ing at  that  moment,  they  all  went  in  to  dinner. 

The  two  little  brothers  had  a chair  on 
each  side  of  their  father,  and  an  occasional 
share  in  his  food. 

Dinner  proceeded  in  silence.  Uncle  Char- 
ge was  enjoying  his  soup,  and  Sir  Everard, 
div  iding  himself  between  his  little  boys  and 
his  meal. 

“It’s  William’s  birthday  to-day,  saifl 
Humphrey,  breaking  silence, 


24 


MISUKDEBSTC  OD. 


The  unfortunate  individual  in  white  silk 
stockings,  thus  suddenly  brought  into  pub- 
lic notice,  reddened  to  the  roots  of  his 
hair;  and  in  his  confusion  nearly  dropped 
the  dish  he  was  in  the  act  of  putting  down 
before  his  master. 

“ He’s  twenty-two  years  old  to-day,”  con- 
tinued Humphrey;  “he  told  me  so  this 
morning.” 

Sir  Everard  tried  to  evince  a proper 
amount  of  interest  in  so  important  an  an- 
nouncement. 

“ What  o’clock  were  you  born,  William  ?” 
pursued  Humphrey,  addressing  the  shy 
young  footman  at  the  side-board,  where  he 
had  retreated  with  the  dish-cover,  and  from 
whence  he  was  making  all  sorts  of  signs  to 
his  tormentor,  in  the  vain  hope  of  putting 
an  end  to  the  conversation 

S’r  Everard  hastily  held  out  a bit  of  tur- 
bot on  the  end  of  his  fork,  and  effectually 
slopped  the  boy’s  mouth  for  a few  minutes  ; 
but  no  sooner  had  he  swallowed  it,  than  ho 
broke  out  again. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


25 


“ What  are  you  going  to  give  William  for 
his  birthday  present,  father  ?”  he  said,  put- 
ting his  arms  on  the  table,  and  resting  his 
chin  upon  them,  that  he  might  the  more 
conveniently  look  up  into  his  father’s  face, 
and  await  his  answer. 

Lower  and  lower  bent  Uncle  Charlie’s 
head  over  his  plate,  and  his  face  became 
alarmingly  suffused  with  color. 

“ I know  what  he’d  like,”  finished  Hum- 
phrey, “ for  he’s  told  me  ! ” 

The  unhappy  footman  snatched  up  a dish- 
cover,  and  began  a retreat  to  the  door ; but 
the  inexorable  butler  handed  him  the  lob- 
ster sauce,  and  he  was  obliged  to  advance 
with  it  to  his  master’s  side. 

“ I said  to  him  to-day,”  proceeded  Hum- 
phrey, in  all  the  conscious  glory  of  being  in 
William’s  confidence,  “ If  father  were  to 
give  you  a birthday  present,  what  would  you 
like?  You  remember,  don’t  you,  William? 
And  then  he  told  me,  didn’t  you,  William  ^’ 
The  direct  form  of  attack  was  more  than 
flesh  and  blood  could  stand.  William  made 


3 


96 


MISUNDERSTOOD 


a rush  to  the  door  with  the  halt-filled  tray 
and,  in  spite  of  furious  glances  from  the 
butler,  disappeared,  just  as  Uncle  Charlie 
gave  it  up  as  a bad  job,  and  burst  out 
laughing. 

“ You  must  not  talk  quite  so  much  at 
dinner,  my  boy,”  said  Sir  Everard,  when 
the  door  was  shut ; “ your  uncle  and  I have 
not  been  able  to  say  a word.  I assure  you,” 
he  added  in  an  under  tone  to  his  brother-in- 
law,  “these  children  keep  me  in  constant 
hot  water;  I never  know  what  they  will 
say  next.” 

When  the  servants  reappeared  the  gentle- 
men, to  William’s  relief,  were  talking  poli 
tics;  and  Humphrey  was  devoting  his  ener- 
gies to  digging  graves  in  the  salt,  and  bury- 
ing therein  imaginary  corpses,  represented 
by  pills  he  was  forming  from  his  father’s 
bread. 

“ Will  you  come  and  help  me  with  my 
dinner,  next  week,  Charlie  ?”  said  Sir  Eve- 
rard ; “ I am  going  to  entertain  the  abor- 
igines, and  I shall  want  a little  assistance; 


MISUNDERSTOOV. 


27 


It  is  now  more  than  two  years  since  1 paid 
my  constituents  any  attention,  and  I feel  the 
time  has  come.” 

“What  long  words,”  said  Humphrey,  sotia 
voce,  as  he  patted  down  the  last  salt  grave, 
and  stuck  a bit  of  parsley,  that  had  dropped 
from  the  fish,  on  the  top  of  the  mound. 
“ Father,”  he  went  on,  “ what  are  abo — 
abo— ” 

“ Aborigines  ?”  finished  Uncle  Charlie. 
“ Wild  men  of  the  woods,  Humphrey  ; half 
human  beings,  half  animals.” 

“And  is  father  going  to  have  them  to 
dinner?”  exclaimed  Humphrey,  in  great 
astonishment. 

“ Yes,”  said  Uncle  Charlie,  enjoying  the 
joke ; “ it  will  be  fine  fun  for  you  and  Miles, 
won’t  it  ?” 

“ Oh,  won’t  it ! ” echoed  Humphrey,  jump- 
ng  down  from  his  chair,  and  capering  about. 
‘ Oh,  father ! will  you  promise,  before  you 
even  ask  Virginie,  that  we  may  come  down 
to  dinner  that  night,  and  see  them  ?” 

“ Well,  I don’t  know  about  dinner  ” .said 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


xt 

Sir  Everard  ; “ little  boys  are  rather  in  the 
way  on  these  occasions,  especially  those  who 
don’t  know  how  to  hold  their  tongues  when 
they  ought ; but  you  shall  both  come  down 
in  the  library  and  see  them  arrive.” 

At  this  moment  Virginie’s  unwelcome 
nead  appeared  at  the  door,  and  her  unwel- 
come voice  proclaimed,  “ M.  Humphrey,  M. 
Miles,  il  faut  venir  vous  coucher.” 

Very  unwillingly  did  they  ooey,  for  the 
conversation  had  reached  a most  interesting 
point,  and  Humphrey  had  a hundred  and 
one  questions  still  to  put  about  the  aborigines. 

They  proceeded  quietly  upstairs,  closely 
followed  by  Virginie,  who  always  liked  to 
see  them  well  on  in  front  of  her,  in  case  they 
should  take  it  into  their  heads  to  do  any- 
thing very  extraordinary  on  their  way. 

To-night,  however,  they  were  much  too 
full  of  the  wild  men  of  the  woods  they  were 
to  see  on  Friday  to  think  of  anything  else, 
and  they  arrived  in  the  bed-room  nursery, 
without  giving  any  shocks  to  Virginie’s 
nervous  system. 


MISUNDESSTOOJ). 


29 


Indeed,  the  subject  lasted  them  till  they 
were  undressed,  and  washed,  and  tucked  up 
in  their  little  beds  side  by  side. 

Virginie  shut  the  shutters,  and  with  a sigh 
of  relief  retired  to  supper. 

“ I’m  glad  she’s  gone,”  said  Humphrey, 
“because  now  we  can  have  a good  talk 
about  the  wild  men.” 

“ Oh,  Humphie ! ” said  little  Miles  be- 
seechingly, ^'■please  don’t  let  us  talk  of  them 
any  more  now  it’s  dark ; or  if  you  really 
must,  give  me  your  hand  to  hold,  for  it  does 
frighten  me  so.” 

“ Then  we  won’t  talk  about  them,”  said 
the  elder  boy  in  a soothing  tone,  as  he  drew 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  threw  his 
arm  protectingly  round  the  little  one.  Miles 
nestled  close  up  to  him,  and  with  their 
cheeks  one  against  the  other,  and  hands 
tightly  clasped  together,  they  fell  asleep. 

Poor  little  curly  heads,  o’er  whom  no  fond 
mother  shall  bend  to-night,  murmuring  soft 
words  of  love  and  blessing ! Poor  dimpled 
faces,  on  whom  no  lingering  kiss  shall  falP 
3* 


30 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


Outside  in  the  meadows,  the  young  lamba 
lay  by  the  ewe’s  side ; up  in  the  trees  the 
wee  birds  nestled  beneath  the  parent  wing 
but  no  light  step,  no  softly  rustling  gown, 
no  carefully  shaded  light,  disturbed  the 
di'eamless  slumber  of  the  two  little  bro- 
thers. 


CHAFFER  II 


SIR  EVERARD  BUNCOMBE  did  not 
make  his  appearance  in  the  dining, 
room  till  nine  o’clock,  but  long  before  that 
hour  his  movements  were  known  to  the 
whole  household  ; for  soon  after  eight,  the 
two  little  boys  were  stationed  outside  his 
door,  and  failing  to  gain  admittance,  kept 
account  of  the  progress  of  his  toilette,  in 
tones  which  were  heard  all  over  the  house. 

“ M'  ill  you  soon  be  out  of  your  bath, 
fathei  ? . . . Are  you  just  about  soaping? 
. . . What  are  you  doing  now?  . . . Are 
you  sponging  now?  . . . What  a splash 
father  is  having ! He  must  be  drying  him- 
self  now,  he  is  so  very  quiet.” 

Then  sounded  the  unlocking  of  a door, 
and  the  scamper  of  little  feet. 

“ I must  congratulate  you  on  the  satisfac- 


32 


MIHUJUDISRSTOOD. 


torj  way  in  which  you  performed  your 
ablutions  this  morning,”  was  Uncle  Charlie’s 
salutation  to  his  brother-in-law,  as  he  entered 
the  breakfast  room  with  a boy  on  each  side 
of  him. 

Sir  Everard  laughed.  “There  are  no 
secrets  in  this  house,  you  see,”  he  answered, 
as  he  shook  hands.  “ What  a lovely  day  ! ” 

“ Glorious  ! but  it  is  going  to  be  very  hot. 
If  I remember  right,  the  walk  to  church  is 
shady  all  the  way.  Do  these  little  fellows 
go  to  church  ? ” 

“ Not  Miles,  but  I generally  take  Hum- 
phrey ; and  wonderful  to  say  he  is  as  quiet 
as  possible.  I really  think  church  is  the 
only  place  in  the  world  where  he  can  sit 
still.” 

Humphrey  was  engaged  during  the  whole 
of  breakfast  time  in  finding  the  places  in  his 
prayer-book,  and  was  too  much  occupied  to 
talk. 

“ There !”  he  exclaimed  triumphantly,  as 
he  put  in  the  last  marker,  and  restrained 
himself  with  a violent  effort  as  he  was  about 


MISUNBUJRSTOOD. 


33 

to  throw  his  prayer-book  in  the  air,  “ now 
tney  are  all  found.” 

“ And  now  you  had  better  go  and  dress,” 
said  his  father,  “so  as  not  to  keep  your 
ancle  and  me  waiting.” 

Humphrey  joined  them  in  the  hall  at  the 
last  minute,  having  been  detained  by  a skir. 
mish  with  Virginie. 

Their  way  to  church  lay  through  the 
flower-garden  and  down  the  avenue.  They 
went  out  by  the  side-door,  leaving  Miles 
looking  disconsolately  after  them,  his  pretty 
little  face  and  slight  figure  framed  in  the  old 
doorway. 

They  walked  on  together  in  silence  for 
some  time. 

Sir  Everard  was  enjoying  the  calm  beauty 
of  the  summer  day ; Humphrey  was  in  pur- 
suit of  a butterfly  ; and  Uncle  Charlie  was 
looking  round  at  the  evidences  of  his  dead 
sister’s  taste  in  the  laying  out  of  the  flower- 
garden,  and  thinking  of  the  last  time  he  had 
walked  through  it  o church,  when  she  had 
been  by  his  side. 


34 


UIsriNDMMSIOOJ). 


“ How  hot  that  boy  will  make  himself 
before  we  get  to  church,”  said  Sir  Everard, 
presently ; ‘ I really  don’t  know  what  he  is 
made  of,  to  run  on  a day  like  this.” 

“ He  is  a fine  boy,”  said  Uncle  Charlie,  as 
he  watched  the  active  little  figure  skipping 
over  the  flower-beds,  “ and  seems  as  strong 
and  well  as  possible.” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  baronet,  “ Humphrey  has 
never  had  a day’s  illness  in  his  life.  He 
takes  after  my  family,  and  is  going  to  be  as 
strong  and  as  tall  as  they.” 

“ He  is  very  like  some  of  the  old  family 
pictures  t was  looking  at  this  morning ; the 
same  upright,  well-built  figure,  and  dark 
eyes.  Now  Miles  is  altogether  different,  so 
fair  and  slender.” 

“ I fear  Miles  inherits  his  mother’s  consti- 
tution,” answered  the  baronet,  in  a troubled 
tone.  “He  is  very  delicate,  Charlie,  and 
the  least  chill  brings  on  croup,  or  a nasty 
little  cough.  I feel  very  anxious  about  him 
sometimes.” 

“ I daresay  he  will  grow  out  of  it.  1 lie- 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


35 

aeve  I had  a delicate  chest  at  his  age,  and  1 
am  never  troubled  with  it  now.” 

They  were  some  way  down  the  avenue, 
and  Humphrey  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

“ I never  wait  for  him,”  said  Sir  Everard, 
as  he  opened  the  park  gates;  “he  always 
turns  up  at  last.” 

They  were  half-way  across  the  church- 
yard when  the  boy  overtook  them,  flushed 
and  breathless. 

Uncle  Charlie  inwardly  groaned  at  the 
thoughts  of  so  restless  a mortal,  as  a next- 
door  neighbor,  during  two  hours’  service 
on  a hot  summer’s  morning,  and  watched 
his  movements  with  some  anxiety. 

Little  Humphrey  took  off  his  hat  in  the 
porch,  shook  back  his  curly  hair  from  his 
hot  forehead,  and  walked  quietly  into 
church. 

He  led  the  way  to  the  chancel,  where  was 
the  old  fashioned  family  pew. 

Here  he  came  to  a dead  stop,  for  the  bolt 
3f  the  door  was  high  above  his  reach. 

His  uncle  undid  it  for  him,  and  was  about 


36 


MIS  UJHD  MRS  TO  OR. 


to  fiass  in,  thinking  that  of  course  the  child 
HTOuld  sit  by  his  father ; but  to  his  surprise, 
his  little  nephew  pushed  past  him,  went  to 
the  very  end  of  the  long  pew,  and  clamber- 
ed up  the  high-cushioned  seat  opposite  a 
big  prayer-book,  which  was  surmounted 
with  the  monogram  “ Adelaide,” 

The  rustic  congregation  had  often  won- 
dered why  the  father  and  son  sat  at  so  great 
a distance  from  each  other  in  the  pew  that 
so  seldom  had  any  occupants  but  them- 
selves ; and  the  old  clergyman  had  at  first 
with  difficulty  suppressed  a smile  at  the 
view  from  the  pulpit,  of  the  broad  shoul- 
ders and  bearded  face  of  the  six  foot  man 
at  one  extremity,  and  the  top  of  the  small 
brown  head  at  the  other. 

But  in  vain  had  Sir  Everard  invited  the 
boy  to  sit  nearer  to  him  ; he  preferred  his 
isolation.  It  had  once  occurred  to  the 
widower  that  it  might  be  because  it  had 
been  his  wife’s  place;  but  he  never  gave 
Humphrey  credit  for  much  heart  or  senti- 
ment, so  he  had  settled  it  was  a mere  whim 


MIS  UNDERSTOOD, 


37 

and  ne^er  asked  the  boy  any  questions  on 
the  subject. 

The  child  himself  had  never  confided  to 
anyone  but  Miles  how  he  loved  to  feel  he 
was  looking  at  the  very  same  bit  of  the 
painted  window  which  his  mother's  eyes 
had  fallen  upon ; that  his  feet  were  on  the 
very  same  footstool  that  her's  had  rested 
on;  and  though  the  big  prayer-book  was 
too  heavy  for  him  to  open,  he  liked  to  put 
his  own  little  morocco  volume  upon  it, 
and  to  press  his  little  fingers  on  the  ‘‘  Ade- 
laide" that  formed  the  monogram  of  her 
name. 

He  could  not  have  explained  what  there 
was  about  the  old  church  that  brought  back 
to  him  more  than  anything  else  the  memory 
of  his  mother,  but  so  it  was : and  the  usual- 
ly restless  boy  would  sit  quiet  in  his  corner, 
and  think  of  the  first  Sunday  he  had  come 
to  church,  when  he  had  read  out  of  the 
same  prayer-book  with  her,  and  listened  to 
her  sweet  voice  as  she  joined  in  the  Psalms 
and  Hymns. 

4 


38 


MIS  VNV  EBSTOOD 


The  service  began,  and  Humphrej^  strug- 
gled down  from  his  seat. 

The  villagers  had  grown  accustomed, 
when  the  congregation  stood  up,  to  see  the 
baronet  rise  tall  and  broad  from  his  seat, 
and  the  little  brown  head  of  his  son  dis- 
appear altogether;  but  Uncle  Charlie  was 
by  no  means  prepared  for  so  complete  a 
collapse,  and  thought  his  nephew  had  fallen. 
However,  there  he  was,  standing  on  the 
ground,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  prayer- 
book,  and  the  walls  of  the  pew  towering 
over  him  on  every  side. 

“Why  on  earth  does  he  not  stand  on  a 
stool?”  was  the  young  man’s  inward  re- 
flection. 

Truth  to  say,  the  temptation  to  gain  three 
feet  in  height,  and  get  a view  of  what  was 
passing  around,  had  at  times  assailed  Hum- 
phrey, but  he  felt  sure  his  mother  had  never 
stood  on  the  stool,  and  so  he  resisted  the 
inclination. 

And,  indeed,  if  Lad}'  Buncombe  had 
mounted  the  very  high  structure  which 


MISUNDL'^STOOD. 


39 


went  by  the  name  of  a hassock,  the  effect 
would  have  been  a trial  to  the  gravity  of 
the  congregation. 

Humphrey  followed  the  service  pretty 
well  till  the  chanting  began,  and  here  he 
always  got  wrong.  Do  what  he  would  he 
could  not  keep  time  with  the  rest,  but  al- 
ways arrived  at  the  end  of  the  verse  either 
too  early  or  too  late. 

By  slow  degrees  he  had  discovered  that 
it  did  not  do  to  sing  straight  through  to  the 
end,  because  there  were  some  bits  and  words 
they  sang  over  again ; but  how  he  was  ever 
to  discover  which  particular  word  or  sen- 
tence they  were  going  to  repeat,  was  to  him 
a perpetual  puzzle. 

He  had  a great  admiration  for  the  turns 
and  shakes  with  which  the  old  clerk  varied 
the  “Te  Deum,”  and  had  once  indulged  in 
a mild  imitation  of  the  same ; till  he  caught 
sight  of  his  father  frowning  at  him  from  the 
other  end  of  the  pew. 

When  the  hymn  was  given  out,  Uncle 
Charlie  saw  Humphrey  in  great  difficulties 


40 


MISUNDJSBSTOOJ). 


over  finding  his  place,  so  he  made  a sign  to 
him  to  come  and  share  his  hymn-book;  but, 
with  a most  decided  shake  of  the  head. 
Humphrey  produced  his  own,  and,  without 
moving  from  his  place,  held  it  out  to  have 
his  place  found. 

As  the  young  man  returned  it  to  his  neph- 
ew, he  saw  on  the  fly-leaf  the  name  Ade- 
laide Buncombe,''  in  the  well-known  hand- 
writing of  his  dead  sister;  and  he  did  justice 
to  the  boy's  motive. 

When  the  old  clergyman  opened  his  ser- 
mon-book, Humphrey  settled  himself  in  his 
corner,  in  exact  imitation  of  his  father. 

It  always  took  him  some  time  to  copy  the 
position,  and  sometimes,  when  he  had  just 
accomplished  it.  Sir  Everard  would  uncross 
his  leg,  or  move  a hand,  and  then  he  was 
quite  discomfited,  and  had  to  begin  all  over 
again. 

To-day,  however,  his  attitude  was  quite 
simple.  Sir  Everard  folded  his  arms,  crossed 
his  legs,  and  turning  his  head  to  the  pulpit, 
disposed  himself  to  listen. 


M18UNDMSST00J). 


4* 


Humphrey  did  the  same. 

Then  rose  the  voice  of  the  old  clergyman 
“ In  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  the  Book  of 
the  Revelation  of  St.  John,  and  at  the  sec- 
ond verse,  you  will  find  the  word  of  God 
thus  written  : ‘ And  I heard  a voice  from 
heaven,  as  the  voice  of  many  waters,  .... 
and  I heard  the  harpers  harping  with  their 

harps And  they  sang  as  it  were  a new 

song,  and  no  man  could  learn  that  song  but 
the  hundred  and  forty  and  four  thousand, 
which  were  redeemed  from  the  earth.’  ” . . . . 

Humphrey  did  not  often  listen  to  the  ser- 
mon, but  to-day  it  was  all  about  Heaven, 
and  he  liked  to  hear  about  that,  because  his 
mother  was  there. 

Feeble  must  human  language  ever  be  to 
paint  the  glories  of  that  far-off  land ; but 
when  men  touch  upon  subjects  that  so  vitally 
concern  all,  they  carry  their  hearers  with 
them. 

And  so  it  was,  that  as  the  old  preacher 
warmed  and  glowed  with  his  theme,  the 
hearts  of  the  congregation  warmed  and 

4* 


42 


MISUNDBMSTOOD. 


'flowed  too ; and  there  was  silence  and  deep 
ittention  in  the  old  church  that  day. 

Even  the  village  school  children  fidgeted 
less  th'*n  usual,  and  one  or  two  smock-frocks 
who  had  settled  themselves  in  their  usual 
attitude,  of  arms  crossed  on  the  back  of  the 
bench  in  front  of  them,  and  heads  cradled 
thereupon,  shook  off  the  drowsiness  conse- 
quent on  their  long,  hot  walk  to  church,  and 
sitting  up,  gave  their  attention  to  the  ser- 
mon.  For  were  not  one  and  all  bound  to 
the  land  the  preacher  was  describing  ? And 
was  there  one  who  could  say,  “ What  is  this 
me  ?” 

Only  twice  was  even  Humphrey's  atten- 
tion distracted.  The  first  time  was  when 
he  saw  his  uncle  take  a pencil  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  underline  something  in  his  Bi- 
ble. This  was  altogether  a novel  proceed- 
ing; Humphrey  had  never  seen  it  done  be- 
fore, and  he  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to 
sidle  along  the  pcw-seat  up  to  his  uncle  tc 
investigate  the  mafter. 

Uncle  Charlie  gi  fe  him  his  Bible,  and  he 


MlSdNDEJRlSTOOD. 


43 

saw  that  tlie  text  of  the  sermon  was  the  pas« 
sage  marked 

He  inwardly  resolved,  as  he  regained  his 
corner  by  the  shuffling  process  before  men- 
tioned, that  he  would  in  future  bring  a pen 
cil  to  church  and  do  likewise. 

The  next  disturbance  was  of  a more  ex- 
citing character.  A vagrant  wasp,  after 
disporting  itself  in  different  parts  of  the 
church,  made  an  inroad  into  the  family  pew, 
and  fixed  upon  Uncle  Charlie  as  its  victim. 
Humphrey,  attracted  by  the  buzzing,  turned 
round,  and  saw  his  uncle  engaged  in  desper 
ate  conflict. 

Bobbing  his  head  first  to  one  side,  and 
then  to  the  other,  now  drawing  himself  sud- 
denly back,  and  now  as  suddenly  swerving 
forward,  every  now  and  then  making  a fran- 
fic  grab  in  the  air  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
Uncle  Charlie  strove  to  escape  from  his  as- 
sailant in  vain. 

Humphrey  tried  hard  to  keep  his  coun. 
tenance  as  he  watched  the  encounter,  but  it 
would  not  do.  The  merry  smile  broke  out 


44 


MIS  UNDERSTOOD. 


from  every  corner  of  his  face,  and,  in  gircat 
alarm,  he  crammed  his  hands  into  his  mouth 
to  stifle  the  laughter  he  felt  would,  in 
another  moment,  break  out. 

Uncle  Charlie  was  already  very  angry  at 
being  disqualified  from  listening  to  a sermon 
he  was  enjoying  by  so  paltry  a cause  as  the 
attacks  of  a wasp,  and  now,  when  he  saw  his 
nephew’s  condition,  he  grew  desperate. 

Seizing  a hymn-book,  he  made  a plunge 
at  his  tormentor,  and  brought  it  to  the 
ground,  where  he  crushed  it  to  atoms  with 
his  heel ; and  with  a sensation  of  great  re- 
lief saw  Humphrey’s  countenance  return  to 
an  expression  of  becoming  composure,  and 
found  himself  in  a condition  to  take  up  the 
thread  of  the  discourse. 

Humphrey’s  attention  was  once  more 
riveted  on  the  sermon,  and  his  little  mind 
strove  to  follow  the  clergyman  as  he  spoke 
of  the  white-robed  thousands  wandering  by 
the  jasper  sea  in  the  golden  Jerusalem  ; that 
great  multitude  which  no  man  can  num- 
ber of  all  kindreds,  and  nations^  and 


UISUNDMBSTOOD. 


45 


tongues'”  uniting  their  songs  in  the  same 
burst  of  glorious  psalmody  as  the  “ voice  of 
many  waters,”  and  as  the  voice  of  mighty 
thunderings,  saying,  “ Alleluia ; for  the  Lord 
God  omnipotent  reigneth.” 

“ ‘ Eye  hath  not  seen,’  ” Concluded  the 
preacher,  as  if  in  despair  of  finding  words  to 
express  the  inconceivable  glory  and  beauty 
of  the  halls  of  Sion,  ‘ “ eye  hath  not  seen,  nor 
ear  heard,  neither  hath  it  entered  into  the 
heart  of  man  the  things,  which  God  hath 
prepared  for  them  that  love  Him.’  To  Him, 
who  bought  them  for  us  with  his  own  blood, 
be  glory  for  ever,  and  to  countless  ages.” 

Then  the  organ  broke  forth,  doors  opened 
and  shut,  the  school-boys  clattered  down 
from  the  organ  loft,  and  the  congregation 
streamed  out  of  church ; leaving  the  old 
clergyman  standing  in  his  pulpit,  gazing 
thoughtfully  at  the  retreating  throng,  and 
wondering  how  much  of  what  he  had  en- 
deavored to  impress  upon  their  hearts 
would  take  root  downwards,  and  bear  fruit 
upwards 


MISUNDEMSTOOD. 


46 

Sir  Everard  Buncombe  remained  sitting 
some  time  after  the  service  was  over,  look- 
ing at  Humphrey’s  earnest  face,  and  won 
dering  what  the  boy  was  thinking  of.  When 
the  clergyman  had  retired  to  the  vestry,  he 
rose,  and  led  the  way  out. 

Softly  blew  the  summer  breezes  on  little 
Humphrey’s  face  as  he  stepped  out  into  the 
porch,  and  the  calm  beauty  of  the  summer 
morning  was  in  perfect  harmony  with  the 
turn  which  the  sermon  had  given  to  his 
thoughts.  All  around  was  the  beautifully- 
wooded  country,  lying  calm  and  still  under 
the  cloudless  sky.  Perhaps  if  his  vague 
ideas  could  have  taken  shape,  they  would 
have  formed  themselves  into  some  such  ex- 
pression as — “ Can  heaven  be  fairer  than 
this?” 

But  Humphrey’s  was  not  a nature  that 
could  long  remain  absorbed  in  thought,  and 
he  was  soon  skipping  along  the  road  in  front 
of  his  father  and  uncle,  and  kicking  up 
clouds  of  dust  with  his  best  Sunday  boots. 

At  the  park  gates  they  found  Miles  and 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


47 


Virginie.  The  latter  joined  the  other  ser- 
vants in  the  road,  and  the  two  little  brothers 
walked  on  together. 

“ Did  the  clergyman  take  any  of  my  texts 
to-day  for  his  sermon  ? ” asked  the  younger 
one  eagerly,  as  he  took  hold  of  Humphrey’s 
hand.  (Miles  was  learning  the  beatitudes,  and 
asked  the  question  regularly  every  Sunday.) 

“ No,  not  one  of  them.  He  got  a text  out 
of  the  very  last  bit  of  the  whole  Bible — 
‘ The  Revelation.’  ” 

“ That  must  be  the  bit  Virginie  never  will 
read  to  me.  She  says  I should  not  under- 
stand it.  Do  you  understand  the  Revela- 
tions, Humphie  ? ” 

“Yes,”  returned  Humphrey,  promptly. 

“Virginie  doesn’t,”  said  Miles  rather 
puzzled,  “ and  she  says  very  few  grown-up 
people  do.” 

“ Virginie  is  French,”  retorted  Humphrey, 
“ and  the  Revelations  are  written  in  English. 
Of  course  she  can’t  understand  them  as  well 
as  I do.  I'here  goes  a rabbit  Let’s  rue 
after  it. 


48 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


And  Miles,  perfectly  satisfied  with  th« 
explanation,  followed  his  brother,  panting 
into  the  fern. 

In  the  afternoon  the  gentlemen  went  again 
to  church,  and  as  Virginie  was  at  liberty  to 
do  the  same,  the  children  were  left  under 
the  care  of  the  housemaid. 

Humphrey  was  learning  a hymn,  and,  for 
once  in  his  life,  giving  his  whole  attention 
to  his  task. 

Miles,  sitting  on  the  housemaid’s  lap,  was 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  “ Peep  of 
Day,”  and  gleaning  his  ideas  of  sacred  cha- 
racters from  the  illustrations  of  that  well- 
known  work.  He  stopped  in  great  amaze- 
ment before  the  representation  of  Lazarus 
rising  from  the  tomb,  and  demanded  an 
explanation. 

Jane,  who  had  an  idea  that  everything 
connected  with  death  should  be  most  care- 
fully concealed  from  children,  answered 
evasively  that  it  was  nothing,  and  tried  to 
turn  over  the  page,  but  boys  are  not  so 
easily  baulked. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


49 


Had  Miles  been  a girl,  he  would  probably 
have  oeen  satisfied  to  pass  over  the  picture 
without  further  inquiry ; girls’  minds  take 
a very  superficial  grasp  of  a subject ; they 
are  content  to  get  at  the  shell  of  knowledge, 
and  to  leave  the  kernel  untasted.  Being  a 
boy.  Miles  raised  his  large,  grave  eyes  to 
Jane’s  face  with  an  inquiring  expression. 

“ Why  don’t  you  tell  me  ?”  he  asked,  lay- 
ing a detaining  hand  on  the  leaf ; “ I want 
to  know  all  about  it.  What  is  that  great 
hole?  and  why  is  the  man  all  sewed  up  in 
white  ?” 

Jane,  driven  into  a corner,  admitted  that 
the  hole  was  a grave. 

“ But,  lor ! master  Miles,”  added  she, 
“ you  don’t  know  nothing  about  them  things, 
and  if  you  want  to  know  you  must  ask  your 
pa !” 

“ Of  course  I know  people  die,”  said  Miles,, 
simply,  “ because  my  mamma’s  dead ; so 
you’re  quite  wrong,  Jane,  to  say  I don’t  un- 
derstand those  sort  of  things.  I know  all 
about  it.  When  people  die  they  are  packed 


50 


MISUNDSMSTOOD. 


up  in  a box  and  put  into  the  ground,  and 
then  if  they’ve  been  good,  God  will  come 
some  day  and  unpack  them.” 

Humphrey  had  joined  the  group  jmst  in 
time  to  hear  the  end  of  the  explanation, 
and  he  met  Jane’s  eye  and  smile  with  all 
the  conscious  superiority  of  his  three  years 
advance  in  religious  knowledge. 

“ If  mother  were  here,  Miles,”  he  whis- 
pered, “ she  would  explain  to  you  much 
better  than  that.  There  was  something  she 
used  to  tell  me  about  our  dead  body  being 
like  a seed,  that  is,  put  into  the  ground,  but 
will  turn  into  a beautiful  flower  some  day. 
Only  I can’t  remember  it  quite  like  she  said 
it,”  he  added,  sighing,  “ I wish  I could.” 

“ Oh,  Humphie  !”  said  little  Miles  eager- 
ly, holding  up  the  book,  “ can  you  remember 
what  she  used  to  say  about  this  picture  ?” 

But  Humphrey  taxed  his  memory  in 
vain.  It  was  all  so  dim,  so  confused,  he 
could  not  remember  sufficiently  clearly  to 
tell  the  story,  so  Jane  was  called  upon  tg 
vead  it. 


MISVNDSnSTOOD. 


5» 


Now  Jane  left  out  her  h’s,  and  did  not 
mind  her  stops,  so  the  beautiful  story  of  the 
raising  of  Lazarus  must  have  lost  much  of 
its  charm;  but  still  the  children  listened 
with  attention,  for  those  who  have  nothing 
better  must  put  up  with  what  they  have. 
Poor  little  opening  minds,  depending  thus 
early  on  the  instructions  of  an  ignorant 
housemaid!  forced  to  forego,  in  the  first 
budding  of  youth,  those  lessons  in  Divine 
truth  that  came  so  lovingly,  and  withal  so 
forcibly,  from  the  lips  of  a tender  motExex ; 
those  lessons  which  linger  on  the  heart  of 
the  full-grown  man  long  after  the  lips  that 
pronounced  them  are  silenced  for  ever. 

Depend  upon  it,  association  has  a great 
power,  and  those  passages  in  the  Bible 
which  bring  to  children  most  clearly  thu 
image  of  their  mother,  are  those  which,  ir 
after  life,  are  loved  and  valued  most. 

And  surely  those  childish  memories  ow« 
something  of  their  charm  to  the  recollec 
tion  of  the  quiet,  well  - modulated  reading, 
the  clear,  refined  enunciation ; the  repose 


MISUNDERSTOOD, 


52 

of  the  attitude  in  the  sofa  or  chair,  the 
white  hand  that  held  the  book,  with,  it  may 
be,  the  flashing  of  the  diamond  ring  in  the 
light,  as  the  fingers  turned  over  the  pages ! 

Even  as  I write,  I see  rising  from  the 
darkness  before  me  a vision  of  a mother 
and  a child.  I see  the  soft  eyes  meeting 
those  of  the  little  listener  on  the  stool,  at 
her  knee.  I see  the  earnestness  pervading 
every  line  of  the  beautiful  face.  I almost 
hear  the  tones  of  the  gentle  voice,  which, 
while  reducing  the  mysteries  of  Divine 
truth  to  the  level  of  the  baby  comprehen- 
sion, carry  with  them  the  unmistakable  im- 
press of  her  own  belief  in  the  things  of 
which  she  is  telling : the  certainty  that  the 
!ove  and  trust  she  is  describing  are  no  mere 
abstract  truths  to  her,  but  that  they  are  life 
of  her  life,  and  breath  of  her  breath ! 

And  I see  the  child’s  eyes  glow  and  ex- 
pand under  her  earnestness,  as  the  little 
mind  catches  a refraction  of  her  enthusiasm. 
Is  this  a picture  or  is  it  a reality?  Have  I 
brought  up  to  any  one  a dimly-remembered 


MISTTNDERSTOOJ). 


53 

vision  ? Or  is  it  purely  idealistic  and  fanci- 

ful? 

I do  not  know;  and  even  as  I gaze,  the 
picture  has  melted  into  the  darkness  from 
which  I conjured  it,  and  I see  it  no  more  ! 

“ Boys,”  sounded  Sir  Everard’s  voice  at 
the  bottom  of  the  nursery  stairs,  “your 
uncle  and  I are  going  out  for  a walk.  No 
one  need  come  with  us  who  would  rather 
not.” 

There  could  be  but  one  answer  to  such 
an  appeal,  and  a rush  and  scamper  ensued. 

It  was  the  usual  Sunday  afternoon  rou 
tine,  the  stables  and  the  farm,  and  then 
across  the  meadows  to  inspect  the  hay 
ricks,  and  through  the  corn-fields  to  a cer- 
tain gate  that  commanded  the  finest  view 
on  the  estate. 

“ If  only  this  weather  lasts  another  fort 
light,”  said  Sir  Everard,  as  his  eyes  wan- 
lered  over  golden  fields,  “ I think  we  shall 
have  a good  harv  ist,  eh,  Charlie  ?” 

“I  am  sure  we  shall,”  came  from  Hum- 
phrey, who  always  had  an  opinion  on  every 


54 


MISUNDERSTOOD 


subject,  and  never  lost  an  opportunity  of 
obtruding  it  on  public  attention ; “ we  shall 
have  such  a lot  of  corn  we  shan’t  know 
what  to  do  with  it.” 

“ Well,  I have  never  found  that  to  be  the 
case  yet,”  said  his  father ; “ but  if  the  first 
part  of  your  prediction  prove  true,  we  will 
have  a Harvest  Home  and  a dance,  and 
you  and  Miles  shall  lead  off,  ‘ Up  the  mid- 
dle and  down  again,’  with  the  prettiest 
little  girls  you  can  find  in  the  village.” 

“ I know  who  I shall  dance  with,”  said 
Humphre}^  balancing  himself  on  the  top  of 
the  gate,  “ but  she’s  not  a little  girl,  she’s 
quite  old,  nearly  twenty  I daresay,  and  she’s 
not  pretty  either.  I don’t  care  to  dance 
with  little  girls,  its  babyish.” 

“ Who  is  the  happy  lady,  Humphrey  ?” 
asked  Uncle  Charlie. 

“ She  is  not  a lady  at  all,”  said  Hum- 
phrey, indignantly,  “ she’s  Dolly,  the  laundry 
maid,  and  wears  pattens  and  turned  up 
sleeves,  and  her  arms  are  as  red  as  hei 
cheeks.  Dolly’s  not  the  least  like  a lady." 


MlSVNLERSTnoj). 


5S 


' Except  oil  Sundays,”  put  in  little  Miles 
■ because  then  she’s  got  her  sleeves  down, 
And  is  very  smart.  I saw  Dolly  going  to 
church  this  morning,  with  boots  all  coverea 
with  little  vrhite  buttons.” 

“ That  does  not  make  her  a lady,”  said  the 
elder  boy  contemptuously.  “ It  is  no  use 
trying  to  explain  to  you.  Miles,  what  a lady 
is  because  you  never  see  any.” 

“ Not  Mrs.  Jones,  the  steward’s  wife  ?” 
suggested  Miles  timidly,  and  feeling  he  was 
treading  on  dangerous  ground. 

“ No,”  said  Humphrey,  “ she’s  not  a real 
lady,  not  what  I call  a lady.  You  see, 
Miles,”  he  added,  sinking  his  voice,  and 
drawing  nearer  to  his  brother,  so  that  he 
might  not  be  overheard,  “ I shall  never  be 
able  to  make  you  understand,  because  you 
can’t  remember  mother.” 

“ No,”  said  poor  little  Miles,  meekly,  “ I 
suppose  not.” 

This  argument  was,  as  he  knew  by  expe* 
rience,  conclusive,  and  he  was  always  com- 
pletely silenced  by  it. 


56 


MISVNDERSTOO.D. 


“Ana  who  will  my  little  Miles  choose  for 
a partner?”  broke  in  Sir  Everard  ; “it  must 
be  some  very  small  girl,  I think.” 

“ I should  like  the  little  girl  at  the 
lodge,  please,  father,  because  she’s  the  very 
only  little  girl  I know  who  is  smaller  than 
me.” 

“Very  well:  then  you  are  both  provided. 
Charlie,  you  must  come  down  to  the  Harvest 
Home,  and  see  ‘ Up  the  middle  and  down 
again  Humphrey  struggling  with  his  sub- 
stantial partner,  and  Miles  bringing  up  the 
rear  with  the  ‘ very  only  little  girl  he  knows 
who  is  smaller  than  him.’  ” The  father’s  eye 
rested  smiling  on  his  two  children  as  he 
pictured  the  sight  to  himself. 

“And  when  may  it  be  ?”  asked  Humphrey. 
“ Father,  please  settle  a day  for  the  harvest 
to  begin.” 

“ When  the  yellow  corn  is  almost  brown, 
you  may  settle  a day  for  the  harvest,” 
answered  his  father.  “ I have  a reaping- 
machine  this  year,  and  so  it  will  soon  be  cut 
when  once  they  begin.” 


MISUNDEBSTO  OD. 


57 

" I shall  come  every  day  to  these  fields 
and  see  how  it  is  getting  on,”  said  Miles. 

“ I know  a much  quicker  way,”  said  Hum 
phrey,  jumping  down  from  the  gate,  and 
pulling  up  several  ears  of  corn  by  the  roots. 

“ I shall  have  them  up  in  the  nursery,  and 
see  them  ripen  every  day.” 

“ Why,  you  foolish  boy,”  said  his  father, 
“ you  have  picked  them  too  soon,  they  will 
never  ripen  now.” 

Humphrey  looked  ruefully  at  his  ears  ol 
corn.  “ I quite  forgot,”  said  he. 

“ They  will  never  ripen  now,”  repeated 
little  Miles,  sorrowfully. 

“ Never  mind,  Miles,”  said  Humphrey,  “ 1 
will  plant  them  in  the  sunniest  part  of  our 
own  garden,  where  the  soil  is  much  better 
than  here,  and  where,  I daresay,  they  will 
grow  much  finer  and  better  than  if  they  had 
been  left  to  ripen  with  the  rest.  Perhaps 
they  will  thank  me  some  day  for  having 
pulled  them  up  out  ol  the  rough  field,  and 
planted  them  in  such  a more  beautiful 
place.” 


58 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


“ Perhaps  they  will,”  breathed  litt  e M Jes, 
clasping  his  hands  with  pleasure  at  the  idea. 

Miles  was  leaning  against  the  gate,  look- 
ing up  admiringly  at  his  brother,  and  Hum 
phrey  was  sitting  on  the  topmost  bar,  with 
the  ears  of  corn  in  his  hand. 

“ Let  us  go,”  said  Sir  Everard,  suddenly ; 
“ it  is  intensely  hot  here,  and  I am  longing 
to  get  under  those  limes  in  the  next  field.” 

The  little  boys  climbed  over  the  gate,  and 
ran  on  to  the  indicated  spot,  followed  more 
leisurely  by  their  elders. 

Sir  Everard  and  Uncle  Charlie  threw 
themselves  down  on  the  grass  in  the  shade, 
and  the  children,  seating  themselves  by  their 
father,  begged  for  a story. 

“ Sailors  are  the  men  for  stories,”  was  his 
answer;  “you  had  better  ask  your  uncle.” 

Uncle  Charlie  proved  a charming  story 
teller.  He  told  them  of  sharks  and  croco 
diles,  of  boar-hunting,  and  of  wonderful  ad 
ventures  by  land  and  sea. 

The  children  hung  on  his  every  word 

The  shadows  grew  long,  and  the  sun  be- 


MIS  UNDEBSTO  OD. 


59 


gan  to  a nk  over  the  cornfields,  and  stii.  they 
wer  e absorbed  in  listening,  and  their  father 
in  watching  their  sparkling  eyes  and  varying 
countenances. 

“ Come,”  said  Sir  Everard  at  last,  jumping 
up,  “ no  more  stories,  or  we  shall  be  here  all 
night.  It  is  past  six,  and  Virginie  will  be 
wondering  what  has  become  of  us.” 

“ Oh !”  said  Humphrey,  drawing  a long 
breath,  as  he  descended  from  those  heights 
of  wonder  to  the  trifling  details  of  every- 
day life,  recalled  by  the  mention  of  Virginie, 
“ how  delicious  it  has  been  ! I hope,  father, 
you  will  let  me  be  a sailor  when  I grow 
up?” 

“ W ell,  I don’t  think  that  will  exactly  be 
your  vocation,”  answered  Sir  Everard  ; “ but 
there  is  plenty  of  time  before  you.” 

“ Me,  too,”  said  little  Miles ; “ I want  to 
be  a sailor  too.” 

“ You,  my  darling,  ’ said  Sir  Everard, 
Fondly ; “ no,  not  you ; 1 couldn’t  spare  you 
my  sweet  litt.e  fellow.  ’ 

And  he  stooped,  as  he  spoke,  to  kiss  the 


6o 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


little  face  that  was  uplifted  so  pleadingly  to 
his,  the  lips  that  were  always  so  ready  to 
respond  to  his  caresses. 

Humphrey  had  turned  away  his  head, 
and  was  gazing  intently  at  his  ears  of 
corn. 

Is  he  jealous,  I wonder  thought  Uncle 
Charlie,  peering  at  the  little  face  under  the 
straw  hat,  and  wondering  whether  it  was  a 
tear  he  saw  shining  among  the  long  dark 
eyelashes. 

But  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  if 
it  were  so,  the  child’s  eyes  were  sparkling 
with  excitement  over  a curious  creature 
with  a thousand  legs,  which  had  crawled 
out  of  the  corn  in  his  hand. 

And  now  jump  up,  boys,  and  come 
home.”  Sir  Everard,  as  he  spoke,  picked 
up  his  cane,  and  taking  his  brother-in-law’s 
arm,  walked  slowly  on.  ‘‘We  shall  have  all 
these  feats  reproduced,  Charlie,  of  that  I 
am  quite  sure.  Virginie  has  a nice  time  be- 
fore her.” 

There  was  very  little  tea  eaten  that  even- 


MIS  UNDUBSTO  OJ). 


6i 


.ng,  the  children  were  in  such  a hurry  to  gel 
down  again  to  the  delectable  anecdotes. 

But  Sir  Everard  took  alarm  at  Miles’s 
flushed  cheeks  and  bright  eyes,  and  would 
allow  no  more  exciting  stories  so  close  upon 
bed-time. 

“ Will  you  finish  about  the  crocodile  to- 
morrow?” asked  Humphrey,  creeping  up 
his  uncle’s  leg,  as  he  came  to  wish  him  good- 
night. 

“ To-morrow  I go,  my  boy,”  he  answered. 

“ Going  to  - morrow !”  said  Humphrey. 
“ What  a very  short  visit !” 

“ What  a very  short  visit !”  echoed  Miles, 
who  always  thought  it  incumbent  on  him  to 
say  the  same  thing  as  his  brother. 

“ I will  pay  you  a longer  visit  next  time,” 
said  Uncle  Charlie,  as  he  kissed  the  twc 
little  faces. 

“ But  when  will  next  time  be  ?”  persisted 
Humphrey. 

“Yes!  when  will  next  time  be?”  repeated 
Miles. 

“ Ah ! when  indeed  ?”  said  Uncle  Charlie 
6 


CHAPTER  III. 


« HAVE  got  so  many  plans  in  my 


-1-  head,  that  I think  I shall  burst,”  said 
Humphrey  to  Miles  the  next  morning,  as 
they  stood  on  the  door-steps,  watching  the 
dog-cart  vanishing  in  the  distance,  on  its 
way  to  the  station,  with  their  father  and 
uncle.  “ Some  of  the  things  Uncle  Charlie 
was  telling  us  about  would  be  quite  easy 
for  us  to  do.  You  wouldn’t  be  afraid,  I 
suppose,  to  climb  up  the  big  tree  overhang- 
ing the  pond  where  the  water-lilies  are  ?” 

“ No,”  said  Miles,  rather  doubtfully,  “ not 
if  you  went  on  first  and  gave  me  your  hand ; 
but  that  tree  is  a long  way  off — wouldn’t 
one  of  the  trees  in  the  orchard  do  ?” 

“ Oh,  no ! it  wouldn’t  be  half  the  fun. 
Dont  you  remember  the  man  in  the  story 


(6a) 


MISUNDMBSTOOD. 


63 

crawled  along  the  branch  that  stretched 
over  the  water?  Well,  this  tree  has  a 
branch  hanging  right  over  the  pond ; and  I 
want  to  crawl  along  it,  like  he  did.” 

“ Hadn’t  we  better  ask  Virginie  if  we  may 
go  all  that  way  alone  ?”  suggested  Miles,  in 
the  vain  hope  of  putting  off  the  evil  mo- 
ment. 

Humphrey,  however,  did  not  see  the  force 
of  this  argument,  and  so  they  started  off. 

It  was  a very  hot  day,  and  after  they  had 
got  out  of  the  farm-yard  there  was  no  shade 
at  all. 

Humphrey  skipped  through  the  meadows 
and  over  the  gates,  and  Miles  followed  him 
as  quickly  as  he  could,  but  the  sun  was  very 
hot  on  his  head,  and  he  soon  got  wearied 
and  fell  back. 

Humphrey  did  not  perceive  how  languid- 
ly his  little  brother  was  following  him,  till  a 
faint  cry  from  behind  reached  him. 

“Humphie,//m^^stop;  I can’t  keep  up  to 
you.” 

Instantly  he  ran  back. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


64 

'■  I’m  so  tired,  Humphie,  and  sc  hot,  shal 
we  go  home  ?” 

“ Go  home ! why  we  are  close  to  the  pond 
now.  Look,  Miles,  it  is  only  across  that 
meadow,  and  the  corn-field  beyond.” 

Miles  followed  the  direction  of  his  broth- 
er’s finger,  and  his  eye  rested  ruefully  on 
the  expanse  lying  before  him,  where  the  sun 
was  scorching  up  everything. 

“ I’ll  try,  Humphie,”  he  said,  resignedly 

“ I tell  you  what !”  exclaimed  Humphrey, 
“ I’ll  carry  you  !” 

Miles  felt  a little  nervous  at  the  prospect, 
but  he  did  not  like  to  object. 

“ Just  get  over  the  gate,”  continued  Hum- 
phrey, “ and  then  I’ll  carry  you  across  the 
field,  and  we’ll  soon  be  by  the  pond,  where 
it  will  be  as  cool  as  possible.” 

Over  the  gate  they  scrambled,  and  then 
the  elder  boy  disposed  himself  to  take  his 
httle  brother  in  his  arms.  How  shall  1 
describe  the  intense  discomfort  of  the  cir 
curastances  under  which  Miles  now  found 
himself ! 


MlStTKDlSItafOOl). 


6s 

One  of  Humphrey's  arms  was  so  tightly 
round  his  neck,  that  he  almost  felt  as  if  he 
were  choking,  and  the  hand  of  the  other 
grasped  one  of  his  legs  with  a gripe  which 
amounted  almost  to  pain  ; and  still  there 
was  a feeling  of  insecurity  about  his  position 
which,  already  very  strong  while  Humphrey 
was  standing  still,  did  not  diminish  when  he 
began  to  move. 

Humphrey  started  with  a run,  but  his 
speed  soon  slackened,  and  grave  doubts  be- 
gan to  arise  even  in  his  own  mind  as  to  the 
accomplishment  of  the  task  he  had  under- 
taken. 

However,  he  staggered  on.  But  when 
presently  his  long-suffering  load  began  to 
show  signs  of  slipping,  Humphrey  tightened 
his  grasp  to  such  a degree,  that  Miles,  who 
till  now  had  endured  in  silence,  could  endure 
no  longer,  and  he  uttered  a faint  cry  for 
mercy. 

At  the  same  moment,  Humphrey  caught 
his  foot  in  a rabbit  hole,  and  both  boys 
rolled  over  together.  Peals  of  laughter  from 
6* 


66  MISVSDSnSTOOD. 

Humphre}  followed  the  catastrophe,  btiH 
Miles  did  not  quite  enter  into  the  spirit  of 
the  joke.  He  was  hot  and  tired,  poor  little 
fellow,  and  began  to  implore  his  brother  to 
take  him  under  the  neighboring  hedge  to 
rest. 

Humphrey  readily  consented,  and  led  him 
out  of  the  baking  sun. 

“ Perhaps  we  had  better  give  it  up,”  said 
he,  sighing,  as  he  sat  down  by  Miles  in  the 
shade,  “and  try  again  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening.  You  could  do  it,  couldn’t  you,  if 
it  were  not  for  the  heat  ?” 

“ Oh,  yes,”  said  Miles,  eagerly.  With  a 
respite  in  view,  he  was  ready  to  agree  to 
anything. 

“ Very  well,”  said  Humphrey,  “ then  we’ll 
give  it  up  and  come  again  this  evening  afte 
tea.  I declare,”  he  added,  suddenly  break- 
ing  off,  “ there’s  a mushroom  out  there  !” 

He  was  off  in  a moment,  and  returned  in 
triumph  “ Isn’t  it  a lovely  one.  Miles  ? How 
fresh  it  smells  and  how  beautiful  it  peels. 
If  father  were  at  home,  we’d  have  had  it 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 

bMoked  for  his  dinner,  he  is  so  fond  Ox  mush- 
rooms.” 

“ It  wouldn’t  keep  good  till  Friday,  I 
suppose,  for  the  wild  men’s  dinner  party  ?’ 
enquired  Miles. 

“ One  would  be  no  use,”  answered  Hum- 
phrey, “ but  we  might  come  here  some 
morning  and  get  a lot  if  we  brought  a 
basket.  I’ll  tell  you  what,  we’ll  get  up 
quite,  quite  early  to-morrow,  and  come  and 
have  a regular  mushroom  hunt.  Won’t  it 
be  fun !” 

“ I’m  afraid  Virginie  would  not  be  awake 
to  dress  me,”  observed  Miles. 

“ Oh,  never  mind  Virginie  !”  said  Hum- 
phrey, “ I’ll  dress  you.  Miles ; I don’t  think 
Virginie  would  care  to  get  up  so  early,  and 
it  would  be  a pit}'  to  wake  her,  poor  thing ! 
She  goes  to  bed  late,  and  is  so  tired  in  the 
morning.” 

“ So  she  is,  poor  thing !”  said  Miles. 

“ And  besides,  you  know,”  continued 
Humphrey,  “ she  always  thinks  something 
dreadful  will  happen  if  she  doesn’t  come 


68 


MIS  UNDEBSTO  OB. 


with  US,  and  it  would  be  a pity  to  frighten 
her  for  nothing.” 

“ So  it  would ; a great  pity,”  repeated 
Miles.  “But  what’s  that  noise,  Humphie? 
Is  it  a cock  crowing  or  a bull  roaring?” 

Both  children  listened. 

There  vras  many  a sound  to  be  heard 
round  about  on  that  summer  morning  ; the 
buzzing  of  bees  as  they  flitted  about  among 
the  clover,  the  chirrup  of  the  grasshoppers 
in  the  long  grass,  the  crowing  of  a cock 
from  the  farm,  and  the  lowing  of  cattle  in 
the  distance,  but  that  which  had  attracted 
Miles’  attention  was  none  of  all  these.  It 
was  the  gradually  approaching  sound  of  a 
female  voice,  which,  as  its  owner  neared  the 
meadow,  assumed  to  the  two  little  listeners 
the  familiar  tones  of  the  French  language. 

“ M.  Humphrey ! M.  Miles ! M.  Hum- 
phrey  ! ou  etes-vous  done  ?” 

“ It’s  Virginie !”  they  both  exclaimed, 
jumping  up. 

Virginie  it  was ; and  great  w as  the  horror 
she  expressed  at  their  having  strayed  so  far 


MISUNDERSTC  on, 

h ai)  home,  at  the  state  of  heat  in  which  she 
found  Miles,  and  at  his  having  been  taken 
such  a long  walk. 

Many  were  the  reproaches  she  heaped 
upon  Humphrey  as  they  walked  back  to  the 
house  for  having  caused  her  such  a hunt  in 
the  heat  of  the  sun,  and  her  nerves  such  a 
shock  as  they  had  experienced  when  she 
had  not  found  him  and  his  brother  in  their 
usual  haunts. 

Lastly  she  brought  him  up  with  the  in 
quiry,  Et  vos  lemons ! Savez  vous  quhl  est 
midi  passe?'' 

Humphrey's  ideas  of  time  were  always  of 
the  vaguest  order,  and  when  anything  of  so 
exciting  a nature  as  this  morning's  expedi- 
tion came  in  the  way,  hours  were  not  in  his 
calculations. 

He  did  not  mend  matters  much  by  saying 
he  should  have  thought  it  had  been  about 
half-past  nine. 

Virginie  maintained  a dignified  silence 
after  this  explanation,  till  they  reached  the 
hall  door ; and  it  now  being  too  near  dinner 


70 


MIS  UN B ERSIOOD. 


time  to  make  it  woith  while  for  Humphrey 
to  get  out  his  books,  she  informed  him  that 
he  would  have  to  do  all  his  lessons  in  the 
afternoon. 

This  was  perhaps  more  of  a punishment 
to  Miles  than  to  Humphrey. 

Lessons  were  no  trouble  to  Humphrey 
when  once  his  attention  was  fixed  on  them ; 
and  if  it  were  not  for  the  penance  of  having 
to  sit  still  in  a chair,  he  did  not  really  dis- 
like them.  But  to  Miles,  his  brother's  les- 
son hours  were  times  of  dreary  probation. 
He  was  not  allowed  to  speak  to  him,  or  dis- 
tract his  attention  in  any  way ; and  had  to 
sit  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a picture  book, 
or  building  a solitary  castle  of  bricks,  in 
some  part  of  the  room  where  Humphrey 
could  not  see  him  without  regularly  turning 
his  head  round. 

Humphrey  made  a faint  attempt  after 
dinner  to  persuade  Virginie  to  let  him  do 
his  lessons  in  the  garden,  under  the  big  tree 
on  the  lawn ; but  it  was  instantly  negatived. 
In  the  nursery,  with  his  back  turned  to 


MI8UNDE1J18T00D. 


7* 

Miles,  she  did  sometimes  succeed  in  concen- 
trating his  attention  on  his  reading ; but  she 
knew  too  much  of  the  all-powerful  attrac 
lions  out  of  doors  to  comply  with  his  pro 
posal.  Not  to  mention  the  chance  of  Carle 
suddenly  jumping  upon  the  book,  or  the 
tempting  vicinity  of  the  gardeners  with  the 
mowing  machine,  there  was  always  risk  to 
his  powers  of  attention  in  chance  butterflies 
and  humble  bees,  the  dropping  of  a blossom 
from  the  tree  above,  or  the  sudden  advent 
of  a stray  water-wag-tail. 

Humphrey  did  not  press  the  question, 
and  opened  his  book  with  a slight  sigh,  for 
which  Virginie  could  not  account. 

Was  there  a memory  floating  in  the  child’s 
mind  of  a time  when  the  same  request  had 
never  been  made  in  vain  ? — of  summer  after 
noons,  dimly  remembered,  when,  sitting  by 
his  mother’s  side  under  the  same  old  tree, 
he  had  learnt  to  read  words  of  one  syllable 
out  of  the  baby  primer  on  her  knee  ? — and 
when,  if  his  attention  had  sometimes  wan- 
dered to  the  summer  sights  and  sounds 


72 


MISUJSrDUHJSTOOD. 


around  him,  her  gentle  Now,  my  darling 
tr}'  and  attend  to  your  reading,''  would  in- 
stantly recall  it.  And  then  the  quick  shut- 
ting up  of  the  book  when  the  specified  stage 
had  been  reached,  the  fond  kiss  of  dismissal, 
and  the  joyous  Now  run  away,  my  child, 
and  play  to  your  heart's  content !"  as  if  she 
rejoiced  as  much  as  he  did  that  he  should 
be  released  from  his  temporary  bondage, 
and  disport  himself  in  the  sunshine  once 
more ! 

Great  stillness  now  reigned  in  the  nursery 
for  more  than  an  hour.  It  was  only  broken 
by  the  monotonous  drone  of  Humphrey's 
reading,  and  Virginie's  occasional  ^‘Tenez-. 
vous  bien.  Otez  done  les  bras  de  la  table 
Ne  donnez  pas  des  coups  de  pied  a la  chaise" 
— varied  by  the  fall  of  Miles's  bricks,  as  he 
knocked  down  one  completed  castle  after 
another,  in  despair  at  not  being  able  to  call 
upon  his  brother  to  admire  them. 

As  the  time  at  which  Humphrey's  release 
was  due  approached,  and  there  were  no 
signs  of  moving  on  Virginie's  part,  Miles 


MISVNDMnSTOOD. 


73 

gave  vent,  at  intervals,  to  deep-drawn 
sighs. 

It  came  at  last;  Virginie  shut  up  the 
book,  and  put  a mark  in  it,  and  Humphrey( 
with  a loud  “ Hurrah,”  dashed  his  chair 
suddenly  back,  and  turned  head  over  heels 
on  the  floor. 

Miles  threw  himself  upon  him,  and  the 
two  rolled  over  and  over  each  other,  in  the 
‘ abandon”  of  perfect  enjoyment. 

“We’ll  start  for  the  pond  directly  after 
tea,”  whispered  Humphrey. 

But  Virginie  had  other  plans  in  view,  and 
to  the  children’s  disgust  they  were  taken 
for  a walk  with  her,  to  visit  the  wife  of  one 
of  the  farmers. 

The  long  confinement  in  the  farmer’s 
kitchen,  while  Virginie  and  the  farmer’s  wife 
talked  about  bonnets  and  trimmings,  was 
very  wearisome  to  the  two  boys.  Miles 
found  some  compensation  in  the  discovery 
of  a tiny  kitten  on  the  hearth ; and  Hum- 
phrey, mounting  on  a chair,  played  with  the 
trigger  of  the  farmer’s  gun  which  hung  over 
7 


■ ■ 


74 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


the  mantelpiece,  “just  to  see  whether  it  was 
loaded  or  not.” 

They  did  not  get  home  till  Miles’s  bed- 
time. 

Humphrey  established  himself  on  the  edge 
of  the  bath,  and  watched  Virginie  carefully 
as  she  undressed  his  little  brother,  that  he 
might  learn  how  Miles’s  vestments  succeed- 
ed each  other;  for  he  felt  a little  doubtful 
of  his  own  powers  as  a valet. 

His  face  lengthened  considerably  when 
he  saw  how  many  strings  there  would  be 
to  tie. 

He  drew  nearer,  in  his  eagerness,  as  Vir- 
ginie untied  them  one  after  the  other;  and 
began  considering  how  to  do  the  untying 
process  backwards,  and  wondering  whether 
it  would  produce  the  desired  result. 

“ Don’t  be  in  such  a hurry,”  he  called  out, 
in  his  excitement,  as  she  pulled  out  the  last 
tie,  “ I didn’t  half  see.” 

Virginie’s  look  of  astonishment  recalled 
him  to  himself,  and  he  retreated  hastily  to 
his  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  bath. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


75 


Fortunately  for  him,  she  was  so  taken  up 
with  reproving  him  for  speaking  to  her  in 
English,  that  she  foigot  to  inquire  iti^o  his 
extraordinary  interest  w the  tape  strings. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LI  FTLE  MILES  was  dreaming  o a 
green  bank,  on  the  top  of  which  r.e 
and  Humphrey  were  seated,  making  daisy- 
chains,  when  suddenly  the  midges  began  to 
fly  in  his  face  in  a most  disagreeable  manner. 
Buzz,  buzz,  they  came  up  against  his  cheeks 
like  hard  lumps,  and  he  couldn’t  drive  them 
away.  He  turned  to  Humphrey  for  assis- 
tance, and  such  a strong  gust  of  wind  blew 
upon  one  side  of  his  head  and  face  that  he 
fell  over  on  his  side  and  began  to  slip  down 
the  hill.  He  clutched  hold  of  his  brother  to 
save  himself,  and  woke — to  find  neither  bank 
nor  daisies  out  that  Humphrey  was  drag- 
ging him  out  of  bed. 

^^At  last!”  whispered  Humphrey. 
thought  you  never  were  going  to  wake  V ve 
(76) 


MTSUNDEBSTOOJ). 


77 


tried  everything  ! I’ve  thrown  bits  of  biscuit 
in  your  face,  I’ve  blown  into  your  ear,  I’a'C 
shaken  you  till  I was  tired ; I couldn’t 
speak,  you  know,  for  fear  of  waking  Virginie. 
Be  very  quiet,  for  she’s  moved  once  or 
twice.” 

“But  what  do  you  want,  Humphie?” 
asked  Miles,  rubbing  his  eyes.  “ Why  do  you 
get  out  of  bed  in  the  middle  of  the  night  ? ” 

“ Middle  of  the  night ! ” echoed  Hum- 
phrey, “ why  it’s  broad  daylight ! Look  at 
the  hole  in  the  shutter,  how  sunny  it  is  out 
of  doors.  I’ve  been  lying  awake  ever  since 
the  cock  crew,  watching  the  light  get 
brighter  and  brighter,  and ” 

But  before  he  had  concluded  his  sentence 
his  weary  little  brother  had  settled  himself 
again  on  his  pillow. 

“Miles!  Miles!”  whispered  Humphrey 
in  despair,  stooping  over  him. 

“ Good  night,  Humphie,”  said  Miles, 
sleepily. 

“Why,  you’re  going  to  sleep  again,  ’ said 
Humphrey  in  his  ear. 


MIS  UNDERSTOOD. 


78 

“ No,  I m not,”  said  the  child,  dreamily. 

“ Yes,  you  are  ! ” exclaimed  Humphrey 
forgetting,  in  his  excitement,  that  he  was 
speaking  out  loud. 

“ No,  I’m  not,”  repeated  Miles,  trying  to 
seem  very  wide-awake : but  the  fringed  eye- 
lids drooped  over  the  heavy  eyes,  and  he 
tried  to  keep  them  open  in  vain. 

An  ominous  stir  from  the  big  bed  pre- 
vented Humphrey  from  answering,  and  he 
watched  Virginie  nervously,  as  she  rolled 
over  from  one  side  to  the  other. 

Miles  took  advantage  of  the  pause  and  fell 
asleep  again  directly. 

“Wake  up!  wake  up!”  said  Humphrey, 
returning  to  the  charge. 

Miles  sat  up  in  bed. 

“ What  is  the  matter,  Humphie?” 

“ Nothing’s  the  matter,  but  don’t  you  re- 
member our  delicious  plan  to  get  up  early 
and  pick  mushrooms  ? ” 

Miles  remembered  now,  but  the  plan  did 
not  seem  so  delicious  now,  somehow,  as  it 
had  done  the  day  before. 


• MISUNDERSTOOD. 


79 

“ Get  «p  now,  Humphie  ? ” he  said  de- 
jectedly. 

“Yes,”  answered  his  energetic  brother, 
“ you  won’t  mind  it  when  we’re  once  out  in 
the  fields.  I’m  going  to  dress  you  before  1 
dress  myself,  so  be  quick  and  jump  up. 
You’ll  feel  all  right  when  you’re  out  of  bed.” 

Little  Miles  looked  half  inclined  to  cry. 

“ I’m  so  sleepy,”  he  said  wistfully. 

“You’ll  be  better  soon,”  said  Humphrey, 
pulling  off  the  bed-clothes. 

“ Let’s  go  to-morrow  instead,  Humphie.” 
Humphrey  had  turned  round  to  get  Miles’s 
boots  and  stockings,  and  did  not  hear  this 
last  proposal.  When  he  came  back  to  the 
bed-side,  to  his  horror.  Miles  had  lain  down 
again. 

“ What  is  to  be  done  ? ” he  exclaimed  in 
despair.  A sudden  thought  struck  him,  and 
he  went  quickly  off  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room. 

Miles  was  not  quite  asleep,  and  attracted 
by  a clatter,  he  raised  himself  to  see  what 
his  brother  was  about. 


8o 


MlSTTlfDERSTOOD. 


“ What  are  )'ou  going  to  do,  Humphie?’ 
he  exclaimed,  as  he  saw  Humphrey  coming 
slowly  across  the  room  with  a great  jug  of 
water  in  his  arms. 

“ Why  you  see,”  said  Humphrey  in  a loud 
whisper,  and  rather  out  of  breath,  for  he 
was  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  the  water 
jug,  “the  best  way  to  wake  people  is  to 
pour  a jug  of  cold  water  suddenly  on  their 
face,  and  so ” 

“ Oh ! I’m  quite  awake  now,  Humphie ; 
indeed,”  interrupted  Miles,  getting  out  of 
bed  in  a great  hurry,  “ you  needn’t,  really. 
Look  at  my  eyes.”  And  in  great  trepidation 
the  child  opened  his  large  blue  eyes  to  their 
fullest  extent. 

Humphrey  was  satisfied,  and  put  the  jug 
down.  Miles  would  have  been  happier  to 
see  it  safely  replaced  on  the  distant  wash- 
hand  stand,  and  offered  to  help  to  carry  it 
bfck,  if  his  brother  found  it  too  heavy. 

He  was  not  much  reassured  by  Hum- 
phrey’s answer : 

“ It’ll  do  very  well  there ; and,  besides, 


Mlb  JNDMJiSTOOD. 


8i 


it’s  better  to  have  H near  in  case  you  ge,' 
sleepy  again.” 

The  toilette  now  began  'n  earnest:  Hum 
phrey  gave  Miles  his  stockings  to  put  on 
while  he  proceeded  to  dress  himself,  and  wa 
all  ready  but  his  jacket,  when  turning  round 
he  found  Miles  in  great  perplexity,  with  his 
toe  unaccountably  fixed  in  the  place  where 
his  heel  ought  to  be. 

“ I can’t  get  it  out,  Humphie  ! ” 

“ I must  do  it,  I suppose,”  said  the  elder 
boy ; and  he  seized  the  leg,  nearly  upsetting 
Miles  as  he  did  so,  and  proceeded  to  put  on 
the  stocking  wrong  side  out. 

“ It  doesn’t  matter  the  least,”  he  assured 
Miles,  who  was  rather  discomfited  at  the 
bits  of  thread,  and  general  unfinished  ap- 
pearance of  his  leg.  But  what  did  matter 
was,  that  the  walking-boots  had  not,  of 
course,  come  up  from  being  cleaned. 

“Never  mind,”  said  Humphrey;  “shoes 
will  do.” 

On  came  the  delicate  child’s  thin  in-door 
|hoes,  without  any  reference  to  the  heavy 


82 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


dew  and  long  grass  attendant  upon  musli< 
room  hunting.  Miles  was  then  divested  of 
his  night-gown,  and  his  under-clothes  put 

on. 

All  went  on  smoothly  till  the  first  tying 
of  strings,  and  here  Humphrey  was  com- 
pletely at  fault.  It  was  no  use. 

“ Don’t  you  think  you  could  hold  all  youi 
things  together?”  he  suggested;  “and  then 
I’ll  pop  on  your  blouse  quick,  and  make  the 
band  very  tight,  to  keep  it  all  steady  ? ” 

Miles  agreed  to  this  plan,  as  he  did  to  all 
others,  more  especially  as  he  found  the  al- 
ternative was  the  insertion  of  a huge  pin, 
with  which  Humphrey  offered  to  “ make  it 
all  comfortable !” 

“ I don’t  know  how  it  is,”  said  little  Miles, 
shaking  himself  about,  “ but  I don’t  feel  as 
warm  as  usual.” 

“ Don’t  shake  like  that.  Miles,”  exclaimed 
Humphrey ; “it’ll  all  come  down,  you  know. 
Get  your  hat,  and  let’s  come  along  quietly.” 

“ Why  ! I have  had  no  bath!”  said  Miles, 
stopping  short. 


MISUSDERSTOOD. 


83 

“ No  more  have  I,”  echoed  Humphrey 
* 1 quite  forgot ! And  what’s  this  ?”  he 
added,  picking  up  a small  flannel  shirt. 

“ Why,  it’s  mine,”  said  Miles. 

“ So  it  is,”  rejoined  Humphrey,  “ of 
course;  that’s  why  you  felt  cold.  Well, 
we  can’t  wait  now.  Come  along:  be  very 
quiet.”  And  the  two  boys  stepped  quietly 
out  of  the  room,  and  of  course  left  the  door 
wide  open  behind  them. 

It  was  not  much  more  than  half-past  five 
by  the  clock  in  the  hall,  and  doors  and 
windows  were  as  yet  all  barred.  The  light 
came  in  fitfully  through  any  chinks  or  holes 
it  could  find,  and  gave  a generally  mysteri- 
ous aspect  to  the  hall  and  staircase.  Little 
Miles  glanced  rather  timidly  round,  and 
drew  nearer  to  his  brother,  as  they  passed 
through  the  library  and  billiard-room,  as  if 
the  unwonted  appearance  of  the  familiar 
apartments  threw  something  of  the  super, 
natural  round  about  them. 

Any  one  who  has  risen  at  an  unusual  hour, 
wid  come  into  the  sitting-rooms  before  the 


84 


MIS  UN D BBSTOOV. 


household  is  stirring,  will  understand  some, 
thing  of  the  child’s  feeling.  The  chairs 
and  tables  are  undergoing  a phase  which  to 
them  is  familiar,  but  which  is  quite  strange 
to  us. 

We  only  know  them  as  in  connection 
with  ourselves,  and  do  not  dream  that  they 
have  an  existence  in  which  we  are  not,  with 
which  we  have  nothing  to  do.  We  know 
them  in  the  busy  day  and  in  the  lighted 
room  at  night;  but  with  the  grey  dawn 
creeping  in  upon  them  they  are  quite 
strangers,  and  even  mysterious. 

Hans  Christian  Andersen  recognized  and 
expressed  this  feeling  when  he  laid  the 
scene  of  one  of  his  fairy  tales  in  a drawing- 
room at  dead  of  night,  and  endowed  the 
inanimate  objects  in  the  room  with  the  at- 
tributes of  human  beings. 

The  two  little  brothers  found  their  way 
out  by  the  conservatory,  and  went  to  the 
tool-house  to  fetch  some  baskets,  befoi'e  set- 
ting out  for  the  mushroom  fields. 

The  dew  was  heavy  on  flowers  and  grass 


MISUNDEMSTCOJ).  gj 

and  when  they  got  into  the  meadow,  their 
feet  and  legs  got  very  wet. 

At  sight  of  the  first  batch  of  mushroom? 
in  the  distance,  Humphrey  got  wild,  and 
with  a scream  of  joy  he  bounded  towards 
it.  From  one  batch  to  another  he  sped, 
picking  as  fast  as  he  could,  and  was  soon 
out  of  sight. 

Humphrey  had  it  all  to  himself,  for  Miles 
could  not  keep  up,  and  he  was  soon  left  far 
behind  with  his  basket.  He  was  a little  dis- 
concerted at  first,  when  he  saw  Humphrey 
gradually  getting  further  and  further  away ; 
but  having  satisfied  himself  by  a hasty 
glance  round  the  field,  that  there  were  no 
bulls  near,  he  became  reconciled  to  his  soli 
tude,  and  began  to  fill  his  basket,  humming 
a little  tune  to  himself  as  he  did  so. 

He  was  rather  surprised,  as  he  went 
along,  to  see  how  many  mushrooms  Hum- 
phrey had  left  untouched.  They  were  such 
lovely  ones  too ! all  red  and  yellow  outside, 
and  white  inside,  and  so  huge  ! 

He  filled  his  basket  with  them  in  grea‘ 
8 


86 


MISUNDEBSIOOD. 


triumph,  and  then  sat  down  under  z tree  to 
wait  for  Humphrey’s  return. 

The  early  morning  air  was  rather  fresh, 
and  he  began  to  feel  a little  cold  without 
his  flannel  shirt.  His  feet,  too,  were  very 
wet,  and  he  got  up  to  take  a little  run  to 
warm  himself.  He  caught  sight  of  Hum- 
phrey coming  towards  him,  and  ran  to 
meet  him. 

“ Oh,  Humphie  ! I’ve  got  such  a lot,  and 
such  beauties!  Come  and  see  them  under 
the  tree.” 

“ Look  here !”  said  Humphrey,  holding 
up  his  basket;  “did  you  ever  see  such  a 
quantity?” 

Miles  looked  a little  nervously  at  the 
white  exteriors  of  Humphrey’s  mushrooms. 

“ Mine  are  quite  different,  Humphie.” 

“ Y ou  haven’t  been  picking  fungus,  I 
hope?”  exclaimed  Humphrey,  stopping 
short. 

“ Oh,  no !”  said  Miles,  quickly — “ at  least 
I don’t  think  I have,”  he  added  doubtfully. 

‘ But  what  is  fungus,  Humphie  ?” 


MIS UND EBSTOOD. 


8? 

Toadstools,”  answered  Humphrey,  hor- 
rid big  yellow  toads ; there  are  lots  of  them 
about  in  the  fields.  Where  are  they,  Miles 
Show  them  to  me,  (^uick  !’ 

“ They’re  under  the  trees,”  said  Miles  ■ 
and  both  boys  set  off  running. 

“Toads,  every  one!”  proclaimed  Hum- 
phrey,  emptying  the  basket  on  the  ground. 
“ Not  one  mushroom  in  the  lot.  Why, 
Miles ! do  you  know  they’re  poison  ?” 

Miles  stood  aghast — the  awe  of  the  an- 
nouncement completely  softening  the  disap- 
pointment. 

“ It’s  lucky  I saw  them  before  they  were 
cooked,”  continued  Humphrey,  in  a tone  of 
great  solemnity ; “ fancy,  if  all  the  wild  men 
had  been  poisoned!  It  would  have  been 
your  fault.” 

“Oh,  Humphie !”  said  little  Miles,  in 
terror,  “ let’s  throw  them  away.” 

“We’ll  smash  them,”  said  Humphrey; 
“ and  that’ll  do  as  well.” 

So  they  made  a heap  of  the  fungus,  and 
stamped  upon  them  till  their  shoes  and 


88 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


stockings  v>'ere  covered  with  the  nasty  coir 
pound. 

‘ What  will  Virginie  say  ? ” laughed  Hun 
phrey,  as  he  looked  at  his  legs. 

“What  will  she  say?”  echoed  Miles,  de 
lighted.  Suddenly  he  stopped  short.  “ Hum 
phie  ! I never  said  my  prayers ! ” 

“ Good  gracious ! No  more  have  I.” 

“ What  shall  we  do?  We  shall  have  to  go 
home.  It  wouldn’t  be  right,  I suppose,  to 
say  them  out  of  doors?  ” 

“ No  harm  at  all,”  said  Humphrey ; “ let’s 
say  them  under  the  tree.” 

And,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  with 
his  usual  promptitude,  Humphrey  knelt 
down ; but  he  was  up  again  directly. 

“ I was  going  to  tell  you.  Miles,  that  we’d 
oetter  take  off  our  hats  while  we  say  them ; 
every  one  does  when  they  go  to  church ; 
which,  of  course,  you  don’t  know,  as  you’re 
t )o  young  to  go  there.” 

Miles  received  the  information  with  great 
respect,  and  began  to  disentangle  his  elastic 
from  his  hair. 


MISUKDWBSTOOD.  gg 

" Not  yet ! ” exclaimed  Humphrey ; “ wait 
tili  we  kneel  down ; I’ll  tell  you  when.” 

Miles  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Humphrey, 
with  his  hand  on  the  brim  of  his  hat,  ready 
to  take  it  off  at  the  expected  signal. 

“ Now  ! ” said  Humphrey.  Down  knelt 
the  two  little  brothers  on  the  grass,  baring 
their  curly  heads  as  they  did  so. 

Little  Miles  was  accustomed  to  repeat  his 
prayer  after  Virginie,  and  did  not  know  it 
by  heart ; and  he  was  in  great  perplexity 
till  Humphrey  had  finished,  not  knowing 
whether  it  would  be  best  to  remain  kneeling 
or  not. 

In  about  five  minutes  Humphrey  jumped 
up  and  put  on  his  hat.  Miles  rose  too,  and 
confided  his  troubles.  Humphrey  instantly 
gave  the  subject  his  earnest  attention. 

“ It  would  never  do  for  you  to  say  my 
prayer  after  me,”  he  said,  reflectively ; 
‘ you’re  too  young.” 

“ Too  young,  ’ repeated  Miles,  meekly. 

“ And  I’ve  forgotten  my  baby  prayer,  of 
course, ” continued  Humphrey;  “ it’s  so  very 
8’^ 


90 


MISVNDMBSTOOD. 


vei  V long  since  I used  to  say  it 1 u 

tell  you  what,  Miles,  you  might  say  joul 
grace ! 

“My  grace?”  said  Miles,  lather  scared; 
“ why,  that  isn’t  prayers,  is  it,  Humphie  ? ” 

“ Oh,  yes,  it  is,”  answered  Humphrey ; 
‘ in  your  little  book  of  ‘ Prayers  for  Child- 
ren,’ your  grace  has  got  at  the  top  of  it,  ‘ A 
prayer  after  meat.’  Meat,  you  know,  means 
breakfast,  dinner,  and  tea ; even  if  you  only 
have  bread  and  butter,  or  sop.” 

Does  it?”  exclaimed  Miles.  “ I thought 
meat  was  only  beef  and  mutton — hardly 
chicken ! ” 

“ Ah ! but  it  does,  though,”  said  Hum- 
phrey, in  a superior  tone  ; “ you  don’t  know. 
Miles.  There’s  lots  of  things  you  don’t 
know  yet.  Why  you  thought  grace  wasn’t 
prayers,  and  yet  it  is.  Now  say  this 
after  me : ‘ For  what  I have  received,  may 
the  Lord  make  me  truly  thankful.’  ” 

“ Why ! that’s  your  grace,  Humphie,  not 
mine ! Mine  is  only,  ‘ Thank  God  for  my 
good  breakfast.’  ’ 


MISUNDE  RSTOOD, 


91 


Thai  will  do/'  said  Humphrey. 

But,  Humphie!  Fve  not  had  my  break- 
fast! How  can  I say  it?" 

To  be  sure,"  said  Humphrey,  reflective- 
ly, ‘‘that  makes  it  very  awkward.  You’ve 
not  even  had  a bit  of  bread.  If  you’d  only 
had  a biscuit,  it  would  have  done — it’s  very 
unlucky.’’ 

He  remained  for  some  minutes  in  an  atti- 
tude of  deep  thought. 

“ I know  I ’’  he  exclaimed  suddenly ; “ I 
always  say  a grace  before  my  meals,  and  of 
course  you’ll  have  some  breakfast  presently, 
so  you  can  say  my  grace  after  me.  It’s 
very  difficult  for  you,  of  course ; but  still,  if 
I say  it  very  slowly,  you  can  manage  to  do 
it.  Now  listen  very  attentively  : ‘ For  what 
I am  going  to  receive,  may  the  Lord  make 
me  truly  thankful.’  ’’ 

Miles  knelt  down  and  repeated  the  little 
prayer,  and  then  the  two  little  brothers  sal 
down  cn  the  grass,  and  counted  their  mush- 
rooms, to  see  how^  many  there  would  be  for 
the  wild  men  apiece. 


92 


MlSJJNDMBliTOK.D 


Meanwhile  Virginie,  awakened  by  the 
rush  of  cold  air  caused  by  the  oper.  door, 
sat  up  iiL  bed  and  looked  about  her. 

The  two  little  nightgowns  on  the  floor 
and  the  jug  of  water  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  first  attracted  her  attention  ; but  the 
room  being  partially  dark,  she  did  not  per- 
ceive that  the  children  had  disappeared. 
She  got  up  and  opened  the  shutters,  and 
then  stood  staring  at  the  empty  beds,  the 
sheets  and  blankets  scattered  in  all  direc 
tions.  And  then  she  advanced  hurriedly  to 
Humphrey’s  bed,  to  see  if  the  children  were 
hidden  beneath  it.  She  looked  also  under 
the  wardrobe,  behind  the  curtains,  in  the  toy 
cupboard.  But  her  astonishment  changed 
to  alarm  when  she  found  their  clothes  were 
missing,  and  she  ran  into  the  day-nurscry, 
and  hung  over  the  stairs  shouting,  “ M 
Humphrey  ! M.  Miles  ! ” 

Not  being  dressed,  she  could  not  go 
down,  so  she  rang  the  bell  violently,  and 
began  to  put  on  her  things  as  quickly  as  she 
couid. 


MISUADEEiaiTOOD. 


93 

The  housemaid  who  answered  the  belj 
could  give  no  account  of  the  young  gentle- 
men, but  volunteered  to  search  the  house 
for  them. 

While  she  was  absent  Virginie’s  eyes  fell 
on  Miles’s  flannel  shirt,  and  she  wrung  her 
hands  in  despair. 

“ They  must  have  gone  out,”  said  the 
housemaid,  returning  ; “ the  conservatory 
door  is  wide  open,  and  so  is  the  outer  door.” 

“ Impossible !”  stuttered  Virginie,  in  her 
broken  English  ; “ their  walking  boots  have 
not  mounted  ; they  have  not  but  the  thin 
shoes  of  the  house  !” 

“ They  must  be  out,”  repeated  the  house- 
maid, “ for  I’ve  hunted  every  corner.  Have 
they  taken  their  hats  ?” 

Virginie  strode  across  the  room,  and 
opened  a drawer. 

Mon  Dieu !”  she  exclaimed,  when  she 
saw  it  was  empty. 

“ But,  I say,”  she  continued,  gesticulating 
violently  with  both  hands,  “ that  M.  Miles 
will  catch  the  cold,  the  cough,  the  croup. 


MISITNDSHSTOOD. 


94 

See  there,  Jeanne ! he  has  not  the  flanne 
shirt  he  carries  always.  His  chest  will  in* 
flame.  He  will  die  !” 

She  began  to  put  on  her  bonnet. 

“ There  they  are  !”  exclaimed  Jane,  who 
nad  gone  to  the  window.  “ Look  there ! out 
in  that  field !” 

“ In  the  fields  ? sitting  on  the  wet  grass !” 
said  Virginie  in  horror,  as  she  distinguished 
the  two  little  figures  in  the  distance,  seated 
under  a tree.  “ Entrez,  entrez,  ^ I’instant !’ 
she  screamed  to  the  children,  though  they 
were  much  too  far  off  to  hear.  She  seized 
her  shawl  and  ran  down-stairs. 

The  little  boys  were  coming  homewards 
when  she  got  into  the  garden,  and  she 
hurried  on  to  meet  them.  . Miles  had  hold 
of  his  brother’s  hand,  and  was  walking 
rather  wearily ; but  Humphrey,  with  his 
head  still  full  of  the  success  of  his  morning 
sport,  disregarded  alike  Miles’s  languor  and 
Virgiirie’s  infuriated  appearance. 

“ Regardez !”  he  shouted  in  triumph,  hold 
mg  up  his  basket  of  mushrooms. 


MIS  VNDEBSTOOV. 


95 


At  the  sight  of  Miles’s  wet  boots  and 
flushed  cheeks,  Virginie  forgot  all  the  re- 
proaches she  had  prepared  for  Humphrey 
and  merely  with  lofty  disdain  confiscating 
his  mushrooms,  she  took  Miles  up  in  hei 
arms  and  carried  him  home. 

Humphrey  trotted  along  by  her  side, 
entreating  to  have  his  basket  restored,  but 
she  took  no  notice  of  him. 

She  carried  Miles  straight  up  into  the 
nursery,  and  began  to  undress  him.  He 
presented  a curious  appearance  when  his 
blouse  was  taken  off — strings  all  knotted 
together,  buttons  forced  into  the  wrong 
holes,  and  hooks  clinging  to  outlets  that 
were  never  intended  for  them. 

Miles  yawned  all  the  time,  and  sneezed 
once  or  twice,  each  time  provoking  from 
Virginie  an  exclamation,  half  of  alarm  and 
half  of  anger. 

“ You  needn’t  scold  Miles,”  called  ou 
Humphrey,  who  was  being  washed  in  the 
distance  by  the  nursery  - maid  ; “ he  didn’t 
want  to  come — ^it  v'as  all  me.” 


96 


MISV  NDMBSTOOD. 


When  they  were  dressed  again,  the  two 
little  culprits  were  seated  to  their  breakfast, 
but  forbidden  to  hold  any  communication 
with  each  other  except  in  French. 

It  was  rather  a slow  ending  to  so  pleasant 
a beginning,  especially  as  after  breakfast 
Miles  was  so  tired  that  he  had  to  lie  down, 
and  Humphrey  was  hardly  allowed  to  move 
for  fear  of  disturbing  him. 

Virginie  would  not  let  them  out  of  her 
sight  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  they  took 
a dull  walk  in  the  afternoon,  one  on  each 
side  of  her. 

Towards  evening.  Miles  gave  forth  an 
ominous  cough,  and  was  decidedly  croupy 
at  night. 

Virginie’s  nerves  always  deserted  her 
when  the  delicate  boy  was  ill  in  his  father’s 
absence,  and  towards  the  middle  of  the  next 
day  she  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  sent 
off  for  the  doctor. 

Humphrey  was  very  remorseful  when 
Virgmie  informed  him  it  was  his  fault  that 


SlIStJNDMMSTOOD. 


97 

lies  was  unwell,  and  remained  in  a state 
of  great  depression  for  about  three  minutes 
But  the  sight  of  the  doctor’s  gig  coming 
up  the  avenue  sent  it  all  out  of  his  head, 
and  he  dashed  down-stairs,  three  steps  at  a 
time,  to  receive  him  at  the  hall  door. 

“ Well,  Doctor,”  he  called  out ; “ how  are 
you  ? Why,  you’ve  got  new  harness  to  your 
horse ! How  jolly  and  clean  it  looks.” 

“New  harness? — yes,”  said  the  doctor, 
dismounting ; “ but  tell  me  what’s  the  mat- 
ter with  your  brother  ?” 

“ Oh,  it  was  the  mushrooms,”  said  Hum- 
phrey, vaguely,  and  with  his  eyes  running 
over  the  new  reins  and  straps.  “ I wonder 
how  long  they’ll  look  so  fresh  and  clean  ?” 

“ Mushrooms  !”  exclaimed  the  doctor  ; 
“ you  don’t  mean  to  say  they  let  that  delicate 
child  eat  mushrooms?  Has  he  got  an  at- 
tack of  indigestion  ?” 

“ Oh,  no,”  said  Humphrey,  springing 
down  the  steps  and  patting  the  horse ; “ a 
pain  in  his  chest,  I think.  How  glossy  his 
coat  is  to-day,  isn’t  it  ?” 

9 


95 


MIS  UMDSRSl  0 OD 


‘ Same  thing  — same  thing,”  said  the 
doctor ; “ and  I’m  sure  I don’t  wonder,  if 
they  let  him  eat  mushrooms.” 

Humphrey  burst  out  laughing,  having  for 
the  first  time  given  his  attention  to  what  the 
doctor  was  saying. 

“Why,  they  were  raw  !”  he  said. 

“ Raw  mushrooms  !”  exclaimed  the  doc- 
tor, “ who  could  have  allowed  him  to  eat 
them  ?” 

“ But  he  didn’t  eat  any,”  said  Humphrey, 
convulsed.  And  he  rolled  about  so,  as  he 
laughed  at  the  doctor’s  mistake,  that  he 
knocked  up  against  the  horse,  who  imme- 
diately plunged. 

“ Take  care,  my  dear  child,”  said  the  doc- 
tor, pulling  him  away ; “ you  mustn’t  fright- 
en black  Bob — he  won’t  stand  it.  But,  tell 
me,”  he  continued,  drawing  the  boy  into 
the  hall,  “ Why  did  you  say  the  mushrooms 
had  given  him  a pain  in  his  chest  ?” 

“ It  was  the  flannel  shirt ” began  Hum- 

phrey ; but  at  the  sound  of  hoofs  ( n the 
gravel  outside,  he  broke  off  suddenly  ; ' Oh 


MISUNDJEBSTO  0J>. 


99 


there’s  black  Bob  plunging  again;  I Musi 
go  and  see — let  me  go,  please.’  He  broke 
from  the  doctor’s  grasp,  and  ran  back  to 
the  door,  calling  out  as  he  did  so : “ It 
might  have  been  the  flannel  shirt,  perhaps, 
if  it  wasn’t  the  shoes  ; but  we  were  in  such 
a hurry.” 

Despairing  of  getting  any  sense  out  of 
him,  the  doctor  let  him  go,  and  pursued  his 
way  up-stairs,  where  he  had  full  details 
from  Virginie. 

He  did  not  think  Miles  very  bad,  but 
ordered  him  to  be  kept  in  two  rooms  for 
the  rest  of  the  week. 

I need  hardly  say  that  when  he  came 
down  again  Humphrey  had  persuaded  the 
groom  to  let  him  get  into  the  gig,  and  there 
he  was  in  the  broiling  sun  without  his  hat, 
driving  black  Bob  round  and  round  the 
approach 


CHAPTER  V. 


(TTLE  Miles  was  terribly  disappointed 


J— ^ to  find  his  confinement  up-stairs  would 
extend  over  the  day  of  the  dinner-party, 
but  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

The  eventful  Friday  arrived,  and  Hum- 
phrey was  on  the  fidget  all  day.  He  paid 
constant  visits  to  the  dining-room  and  li- 
bra? j,  and  even  intruded  into  the  kitchen  ; 
but  he  could  see  nothing  in  any  of  the 
prej  arations  going  on  which  at  all  differed 
from  those  usual. 

• I suppose,  for  once  they  will  eat  like 
civilized  people,”  he  told  Miles — after  visit 
one  hundred  and  fourth  down-stairs,  in  the 
vain  hope  of  finding  something  new. 

“ Yes,  just  for  a treat,”  suggested  little 
Miles ; znd  they  amused  themselves  foi  the 


(lOO) 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


lOI 


next  few  hours  by  imagining  the  astonish 
ment  of  the  wild  men  at  all  the  different 
things  they  would  see. 

Sir  Everard  arrived  late,  and  went  straight 
up  to  Miles’s  room.  It  so  happened  that  he 
did  not  see  Humphrey,  as  he  was  under  the 
hands  of  Virginie,  in  preparation  for  his  ap- 
pearance in  company ; and  as  several  of  the 
guests  had  already  arrived.  Sir  Everard  had 
only  just  time  to  kiss  Miles,  and  to  hurry 
off  to  his  dressing-room,  from  whence  he 
descended  to  the  library.  So  that  the  con- 
versation of  the  preceding  week,  and  the 
children’s  excitement  over  the  prospect  of 
the  aborigines,  had  entirely  escaped  his 
memory,  for  want  of  the  refreshing  it  would 
have  been  sure  to  have  received  had  he  had 
time  for  a word  with  either  of  his  little  boys. 

He  was  deep  in  politics  with  an  old  gen- 
tleman in  a broad  expanse  of  satin  waist- 
coat, and  a general  buzz  of  conversation 
was  going  on  all  over  the  room,  when  the 
library  door  was  flung  open  with  a bounce, 
and  Humphrejr  appeared  in  the  doorway* 

9^ 


102 


MISUNI>MjRSTOOD 


Fresh  from  Virginie’s  impro\  ing  hand,  in 
velveteen  clothes,  white  waistcoat,  and  light 
blue  tie,  with  his  brown  hair  brushed  back 
from  his  bright  face,  and  his  eyes  sparkling 
with  excitement,  he  looked  like  a being  of 
another  sphere,  among  the  rusty  old  gentle- 
men congregated  in  the  room. 

Many  of  them  turned  round  to  look  at 
the  pretty  boy,  and  more  than  one  held  out 
<t  hand  of  greeting. 

But,  to  Sir  Everard’s  annoyance,  Hum- 
phrey, whose  manners  were  usually  perfect, 
took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  any  of  these 
overtures. 

He  stood  at  the  door  as  if  spell-bound, 
gazing  around  him  with  an  expression  of  in- 
tense surprise,  wonder,  and  disappointment. 

“ Humphrey,”  said  Sir  Everard,  “ why 
don’t  you  come  and  say  ‘ How  do  you 
do  ?’  to  these  gentlemen  ?” 

“ Father,”  exclaimed  the  boy,  in  a clear 
treble  voice,  that  was  heard  all  over  the 
room,  “ where  are  the  wild  men  ?” 

The  ghastly  truth  flashed  across  Sir  Ever- 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


103 

m'd's  mind,  as  the  boy  asked  the  questioa 
The  recollection  of  the  children’s  conversa 
t.on  with  their  uncle  came  back  to  him,  and 
he  was  at  his  wit’s  end. 

“Wild  men,  Humphrey?”  he  said,  with  a 
sickly  smile,  “ what  are  you  dreaming  about  ? 
There  are  no  wild  men  here.” 

“You  know  what  I mean,  father,”  the 
child  answered,  in  the  same  clear  voice, 
making  his  way  straight  across  the  room  to 
Sir  Everard ; “ the  wild  men  of  the  woods, 
that  you  and  Uncle  Charlie  were  talking 
about  last  Saturday,  and  who  you  said  you 
were  going  to  have  to  dinner.  There  were 
two  long  words,  and  the  one  I mean — means 
wild  men.  It  was  a very  long  word,  the 
a — abo ” 

“ Constituents  ? ’ gasped  the  baronet. 

Fortunately  for  Sir  Everard’s  seat  in  Par 
liament,  the  two  long  words,  heard  for  the 
first  time  that  Saturday,  had  confused  them 
selves  in  the  boy’s  mind,  and  he  answered 
“ I suppose  t was — but  / thought  it  began 
with  an  ‘ a.’  ’ 


104 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


‘And  you  thought  ‘constituents’  meant 
^wild  men?’”  pursued  his  father,  eagerly 
foLowing  up  his  advantage,  while  the  guests 
laughed.  “ Why  did  you  not  ask  me,  or 
look  it  out  in  the  dictionary?  Though,  to 
be  sure,”  concluded  the  baronet,  appealing 
to  the  bystanders,  “ I don’t  know  that  it 
would  have  been  easy  to  make  it  clear  to  a 
child  of  seven.” 

“ No,  indeed,”  answered  one  or  two. 

“ But  why  should  he  think  it  meant  wild 
men?”  asked  another,  laughingly. 

“ A child’s  natural  love  of  the  extraordi- 
nary, I suppose,”  answered  Sir  Everard 
“ the  unknown  is  always  the  marvellous, 
and  ignorance  is  always  the  most  easily 
deceived.” 

He  hardly  knew  if  he  was  talking  sense  or 
not ; he  only  felt  he  must  provide  an  answer 
of  some  kind,  and  having  silenced  his  ques- 
tioner, he  breathed  freely  again.  But  there 
was  an  only  half-satisfied  expression  on 
Humphrey’s  face  which  alarmed  his  father: 
and  dreading  that  he  should  cast  his 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


lOj 

tlioughts  back,  and  by  raking  up  something 
else  that  had  been  said  on  that  fatal  occasion 
furnish  to  the  assembled  guests  the  clue  to 
the  conversation,  he  drew  the  boy  to  him, 
and  told  him  he  had  better  run  back  to  his 
brother. 

It  still  wanted  five  minutes  to  dinner ; and 
he  felt  there  was  no  peace  of  mind  for  him, 
as  long  as  Humphrey  remained  in  the  room. 

As  if  to  atone  for  his  unceremonious  en- 
try, Humphrey  seemed  determined  that  his 
exit  should  be  more  in  accordance  with  the 
rules  of  society ; for  he  advanced  to  the  fat 
gentleman  next  his  father,  and  holding  out 
his  hand  wished  him  “ good  night then, 
proceeding  to  the  next  in  order,  he  did  like- 
wise. 

“ Is  he  going  to  shake  hands  with  every 
single  one  ?”  thought  Sir  Everard,  in  despair, 
as  his  eyes  wandered  from  one  to  another 
of  his  twenty  guests,  dispersed  all  over  the 
library. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  Pa- 
tiently and  methodically  Humphrey  went 


I06  MISUNDERSTOOD. 

through  his  task.  Not  one  was  overlooked 
— not  one  was  left  out. 

No  matter  if  one  was  standing  apart,  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  another  deep  in 
a volume  of  prints,  and  two  more  tete-a-t^te 
in  a political  discussion.  Humphrey  thought 
nothing  of  pursuing  the  first,  rousing  the 
second,  and  disturbing  the  others.  The 
inevitable  “good-night”  rang  out  all  down 
the  room,  and  the  inevitable  little  palm  was 
outstretched. 

Sir  Everard  ever  afterwards  looked  back 
to  those  slow  moments  of  torture,  as  to  a 
sort  of  hideous  nightmare.  Each  minute 
was  laden  with  anxiety,  each  new  hand- 
shaking fraught  with  danger,  each  conversa- 
tion that  a guest  opened  with  the  child,  a 
fresh  source  of  fear. 

Interminable  moments ! The  hands  of  the 
clock  seemed  as  if  they  would  never  move 
the  gong  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  sound 
and  he  stood  in  despair,  watching  the  little 
figure  pursuing  its  triumpha.  progress  down 
the  room,  and  listening  to  the  patronizing 


MIS  UNDBBSTOOD. 


107 

tones  in  which  one  and  the  othe’*  rallied  the 
boy  on  his  mistake. 

“ So  you  thought  you  were  going  to  see 
a lot  of  wild  men,  young  gentleman  ?” 

“ Uncle  Charlie  told  me  so,”  was  the  an- 
swer. 

Sir  Everard  fidgeted  from  one  leg  to  the 
other.  (“  Only  thirteen  more,”  he  observed 
to  himself.) 

“And  you’re  quite  disappointed?”  said 
the  next  one,  laughing. 

“ Yes,”  said  Humphrey  ; “ there  isn’t 
much  to  see  in  a lot  of  gentlemen  in  black 
coats.” 

(“  Only  twelve  now,”  reflected  the  bar- 
onet.) 

“ It  was  a joke  of  uncle’s,  I suppose,”  said 
a paterfamilias,  in  a consoling  tone  — and 
Sir  Everard  beat  the  ground  nervously  with 
his  foot. 

“ A very  stupid  joke,”  said  Humphrey , 
with  which  opinion  his  father  fervently 
agreed. 

It  ended  at  last.  The  gong  sounded,  the 


j08  MISUNDERSTOOI), 

last  “good  night”  was  said,  ard  with  an  in 
describable  sense  of  relief  Sir  Everard  saw 
the  little  figure  disappear.  But  he  did  not 
recover  himself  all  the  evening.  It  was  re- 
marked that  he  was  silent  and  abstracted 
during  the  dinner,  and  the  guests  shook 
their  heads,  and  observed  that  he  had  never 
got  over  his  wife's  death.  He  was  truly 
thankful  when  the  party  broke  up,  and  the 
strain  was  over. 

He  could  not  pass  the  bedroom  nursery 
without  taking  a look  at  Miles.  He  was 
sleeping  peacefully,  but  various  sounds,  as  if 
of  sobbing,  came  from  the  other  little  bed. 

Sir  Everard  laid  his  hand  on  the  sheet, 
but  it  was  held  tight,  and  the  curly  head 
hidden  beneath  it.  “ Why,  Humphrey,  my 
little  man,  what  is  the  matter?” 

Very  inarticulate  sounds  succeeded,  but 
by  dint  of  great  patience,  the  baronet  distin- 
guished among  the  sobs  that,  “ he  was  afraid 
Uncle  Charlie  would  go  to  hell,  for  telling 
such  a dreadful  story,  and  he  couldn't  bea^ 
to  think  of  it!” 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IRGINIE  waylaid  Sir  Everard  on  his 


V way  down  to  breakfast  next  morning, 
to  beg  him  to  speak  to  Humphrey  on  the 
subject  of  leading  Miles  into  mischief. 

The  baronet  acquiesced  with  a sigh.  It 
was  a job  he  particularly  disliked.  In  the 
short  time  he  was  able  to  be  with  his  chil- 
dren, he  enjoyed  seeing  them  all  life  and 
happiness;  and  he  hated  to  bring  a cloud 
over  their  bright  faces. 

Humphrey  was  hanging  out  of  the  win 
dow  wh  en  his  father  went  into  the  dining 
room,  and  Sir  Everard  was  half  afraid  of 
calling  him  away,  for  fear  of  startling  him, 
and  causing  him  to  fall  out;  but  at  the 
sound  of  his  father’s  footsteps,  the  boj 
drew  himself  in  and  bounded  towards  him 


lo 


(109) 


no 


MISVNDSBSTOOJ}. 


“ Why  did  you  not  come  and  help  me  to 
dress  this  morning?”  said  Sir  Everard,  as 
be  kissed  him. 

Humphrey  looked  rather  bored.  “Vir 
ginie  wouldn’t  let  me,’  he  answered ; “ she 
thought  it  would  be  a good  punishment.” 

Here  was  an  opening ! Sir  Everard  felt 
he  ought  not  to  let  it  slip. 

“ Punishment !”  said  he,  trying  to  look 
very  solemn ; “ I am  sorry  to  hear  you  de- 
served punishing.  Why,  what  have  you 
been  doing?” 

Humphrey  looked  up  to  the  ceiling,  down 
to  the  ground,  and  all  round  the  room.  “ I 
can’t  remember  what  it  was,  father !” 

Sir  Everard  tried  hard  not  to  smile. 
“ What  is  the  use  of  scolding  such  a boy,” 
thought  he ; “a  child  who  does  not  even 
remember  for  what  offence  he  is  suffering?” 

“ Stop  a minute !”  cried  Humphrey,  who 
was  still  in  an  attitude  of  reflection,  “ per 
haps  1 shall  remember  presently.” 

He  ran  over  his  recent  misdemeanors  in 
his  fiead,  checking  them  off  with  bis  fingers 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


Ill 


and  his  father,  seeing  it  was  likely  to  be  a 
'ong  job,  sat  down  to  breakfast. 

“ Well,  Humphrey!”  he  questioned,  after 
a pause,  “ have  you  remembered  ?” 

“ No,  I can't,"  answered  the  boy,  “ but  I’m 
sure  Virginie  will.  Shall  I run  up  and  ask 
her?” 

Sir  Everard  was  amused,  but  a little  pro- 
voked. It  seemed  such  a hopeless  task  ever 
to  make  an  impression  upon  Humphrey. 
But  he  only  said,  “No,  you  need  not  do 
that ; I think  I can  tell  you  a little  about  it. 
Come  and  sit  down  here.” 

Sir  Everard  turned  the  tap  of  the  urn, 
and  put  on  the  longest  face  he  could  think 
of.  “ I am  sorry  to  hear  from  Virginie,”  he 
began,  looking  full  at  Humphrey,  so  as  to 
make  sure  he  was  gaining  his  attention, 
‘ that  you  have ” 

He  stopped  in  despair,  for  Humphrey’ 
eyes  had  wandered  to  the  tap,  and  his  mind 
was  intent  on  the  running  water. 

“Are  you  listening  to  me,  Humphrey?” 

“ Take  care !”  was  all  Humphrey’s  answer 


II2 


MISUNDBRSTOOD. 


jumping  up  from  his  chair,  and  clapping  his 
hands ; “ turn  it  off!  quick ! look ! look  1 
father!” 

There  was  no  help  for  it,  Sir  Everard  had 
to  break  off  his  discourse,  and  attend  to  the 
water,  which  was  running  all  over  the  table 
and  the  boy’s  laughter  was  so  infectious 
that  he  joined  heartily  in  it. 

“I  give  it  up,”  he  said  to  himself;  “it’s 
no  use  trying  to  make  an  impression  on  any- 
thing so  volatile.” 

“ It  served  you  quite  right,  father,”  said 
Humphrey,  “ for  not  letting  me  turn  on  the 
tap.  You  know  quite  well  Miles  and  I al- 
ways take  turns  to  do  it.  Oh ! I wish  it 
would  happen  again!”  And  at  the  recol- 
lection, the  merry  laugh  broke  out  once 
more. 

But  the  mention  of  the  little  prisoner  up- 
stairs, recalled  Sir  Everard  to  a sense  of  his 
duty,  for  Miies  was  suffering  for  his  brother’s 
thoughtlessness.  So  he  gave  Humphrey  a 
long  lecture  on  leading  his  brother  astray 
and  threatened  him  with  the  continual  espi* 


MISUNDEBSTOOL 


113 

onagc  of  Virginie  in  the  garden  if  he  had 
any  more  complaints  of  the  kind. 

Humphrey  sat  looking  very  mournful 
while  the  discourse  lasted,  and  was  vehe- 
ment in  his  promises  that  it  should  never 
happen  again. 

“ Till  next  time,  I suppose,”  said  the  baro- 
net, laughing ; and  then  he  gave  him  somr 
bread  and  honey  and  took  up  the  news 
paper. 

He  felt  rather  proud  of  the  effect  he  had 
produced,  for  Humphrey  ate  his  bread  and 
honey  in  silence,  and  seemed  very  thoughtful. 

“ Boys  will  not  attend  to  the  maids,”  he 
reflected ; “ there  is  nothing  like  the  au- 
thority of  a parent  after  all.” 

In  about  five  minutes,  Humphrey’s  medi- 
tations came  to  a close. 

“Father!” 

“ What,  my  boy,”  said  Sir  Everard,  put- 
ting down  the  paper,  in  anticipation  of  some 
penitent  speech,  and  mentally  saying,  “ I 
did  not  mean  him  to  take  it  so  much  to 
neart,  poor  child  I” 

10* 


114 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


“ If  you  had  lived  in  the  times  of  th« 
Wars  of  the  Roses,  which  side  would  you 
nave  taken  ?” 

Sir  Everard  was  rather  taken  aback.  In 
the  first  place,  because  it  was  rather  a shock 
to  his  feelings  to  find,  after  all,  how  little 
impression  he  had  made  ; and  in  the  second, 
he  was  by  no  means  so  familiar  with  that 
part  of  history  as  to  be  able  to  give  his 
opinion  in  a hurry.  He  would  not,  how- 
ever, lower  himself  in  the  boy’s  estimation 
by  allowing  his  ignorance. 

“ Wars  of  the  Roses,”  he  repeated,  to  gain 
a little  time  for  reflection ; “ have  you  been 
learning  a great  deal  about  them  lately  ?” 

“Yes,”  said  Humphrey,  with  a sigh; 
“Virginie  seems  very  fond  of  them.  Is  it 
true  that  unless  I remember  all  the  battles 
of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  I shall  never  be 
able  to  go  into  parliament  ? ” 

“ Does  Virginie  say  so  ? enquired  Sir 
Everard. 

“ Yes,”  said  Humphrey.  ‘ She  says,  of 
course  all  the  members  of  pnrlian^ent  kno\» 


MISUNDHRSTOOD. 


II5 

the  names  at  the  tips  of  their  fingers  and 
could  say  them  in  order;  and  which  were 
won  by  Yorkists  and  which  by  Lancas* 
trians.” 

Sir  Everard  felt  very  thankful  that  he  held 
his  seat  on  less  frail  a tenure,  and  sincerely 
hoped  his  son  was  not  going  to  put  him  to 
the  test.  Vain  hope! 

“ I suppose,  of  course,  father,  you  could 
say  them  right  off?” 

“ It’s  almost  a pity  to  stay  indoors  such  a 
fine  day,”  said  the  baronet,  hastily;  “sup- 
pose you  get  your  hat  and  run  out  in  the 
garden.” 

Yorkists  and  Lancastrians  at  once  vanish- 
ed from  Humphrey’s  head,  and  he  was  off. 
But  when  he  was  gone.  Sir  Everard  took 
down  a volume  of  English  History,  and 
studied  it  for  the  rest  of  the  morning. 

After  luncheon.  Sir  Everard  proposed  to 
take  Humphrey  out  riding. 

Little  Miles  looked  very  disconsolate 
when  the  horses  came  to  the  door,  and  he 
'ound  himself  condemned  to  a solitary  after- 


Il6  MISVNDMSSTOOD. 

noon,  but  seemed  somewhat  cheered  by  a 
long-whispered  confabulation  that  his  broth 
er  had  with  him  before  starting. 

At  three  o’clock  Sir  Everard  and  Hum« 
phrey  mounted,  and  as  they  went  along 
the  road,  the  following  conversation  took 
place : — 

“ Will  you  pass  through  the  town,  father ; 
because  I’ve  got  some  shopping  to  do  ?” 

“ Shopping ! why  what  do  you  want  to 
buy?” 

“ It’s  such  a very  great  secret,  that  I don’t 
think  I can  tell  you.  But  perhaps  you  can 
keep  a secret  ?” 

“Yes,  I think  I may  promise  to  keep 
it.” 

“ Well,  then,  I’ll  tell  you.  It’s  a birthday 
present  for  you.  And  what  would  you 
like?  But  you  must  promise  not  to  tsU 
any  one.” 

“ No  one  shall  know : but  I think  I would 
rather  you  chose  for  me ; what  you  like,  I 
shall  like.” 

“Well,  now,  I don't  think  you  would 


J^IS  UNDEUSTOOD. 


II7 

i ni  see,  / shou.d  like  a pop-gun,  or  SvJiiie 
nine-pins.  Now  you  would  not  care  foi 
either  of  those,  would  you?” 

Sir  Everard  admitted  that  he  was  getting 
a little  old  for  these  amusements. 

“ I thought  so ! ” pursued  Humphrey,  de- 
lighted with  his  own  discrimination,  “ and 
that’s  what  makes  it  so  difficult.  You’ve 
got  a watch  and  a thermometer,  and  all  the 
other  things  grown-up  men  have,  so  it  is 
very  puzzling.” 

“ But,  my  dear  child,  all  the  things  you 
mention  are  very  expensive,  far  beyond  your 
little  means,  I should  think.  Why,  how 
much  money  have  you  got  ?” 

“Well!  that’s  just  the  awkward  part;  I 
have  not  got  any  ! But  I thought  perhaps 
you  wouldn’t  mind  giving  me  some,  as  it  is 
for  your  own  birthday  present.” 

Sir  Everard  laughed. 

“ Rather  an  expensive  way  of  having 
birthday  presents.” 

“ I don’t  think  it  will  be  very  expensive,’ 
said  the  practical  Humphrey ; “ but  of 


MISUNDERSTOOU. 


Ii8 

course  it  depends  on  what  I buy.  Here  is 
the  shop,  father ; please  stop.” 

They  pulled  up  before  one  of  those  little 
nondescript  shops  to  be  found  in  every  small 
country-town. 

“ Now  mind,”  said  Humphrey,  as  he 
jumped  down  from  his  pony,  “ mind  you 
don’t  peep  through  the  door,  because  you 
might  see  me  looking  at  things  on  the 
counter.” 

He  waited  for  a moment  till  he  had  exact- 
ed a promise  from  Sir  Everard,  and  then 
ran  into  the  shop. 

“ I want  something  for  a grown-up  man,” 
he  said,  as  he  advanced  to  the  counter. 

The  shop-woman  did  her  best  to  show 
everything  she  thought  likely  to  suit,  but 
Humphrey  was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  the 
choice.  His  restless  eyes  wandered  all 
over  the  shop.  “ Have  not  you  got  any- 
thing for  a man  to  put  in  his  pocket?”  he 
asked. 

An  inspiration  seized  the  woman,  and  she 
advanced  to  the  window. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


1 19 

“Take  care!”  called  out  Humphrey,  to 
the  woman’s  great  surprise,  as  she  began  to 
take  down  some  things. 

“ Please  don’t,”  he  continued,  in  an  agony, 
as,  startled  by  his  shout,  she  remained,  with 
a compass  in  one  hand  and  a purse  in  the 
other. 

“ Father’s  out  there,  and  he’ll  see  what 
you  take  down,  and  guess  it’s  for  his  birth- 
day present.” 

The  woman  humbly  begged  his  pardon, 
but  it  was  too  late ; Humphrey  would  not 
look  at  either  purse  or  compass.  “You’ve 
spoilt  it  all,”  he  said ; “ he  must  have  seen.” 

He  remained  leaning  disconsolately  against 
the  counter,  gazing  with  no  friendly  eye  on 
the  rapidly  increasing  heap  of  goods  which 
the  patient  woman  produced  from  all  cor- 
ners  of  the  shop  for  his  inspection. 

“ Have  you  got  a husband he  asked, 
suddenly. 

To  Humphrey’s  horror,  the  woman  put 
up  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  began  to 

cry. 


120 


MISUNDBBSTCOD. 


“ Oh ! I’m  so  sorry,”  said  he ; “I  didn’t 
mean  to  make  you  cry,  really.  I see  now 
you’ve  got  a cap  on,  so  of  course  he’s  dead. 
I’m  very  sorr}’^  he’s  dead,”  he  continued 
after  a pause,  “ because  I was  going  to  say 
perhaps  he  would  have  been  able  to  tell  me 
what  a grown-up  man  would  like.”  Then, 
afraid  he  had  been  unfeeling,  he  added, 
“ Of  course.  I’m  sorry  too,  because  it  seems 
to  make  you  unhappy.  You  don’t  remem- 
ber, I suppose,”  he  went  on,  doubtfully,  and 
eyeing  the  widow  carefully,  to  see  how 
far  he  might  go  without  fear  of  a fresh  out- 
burst, “ what  he  used  to  like  for  his  birthday 
presents  ?” 

The  woman  cast  her  thoughts  back  to  the 
memory  of  the  defunct,  and  the  prominent 
idea  connected  with  him  being  tobacco- 
smoke,  she  suggested  a cigar-case. 

Humphrey  was  delighted  at  the  idea. 

“You  don’t  mean  to  say  they’re  in  the 
window !”  he  exclaimed  in  despair. 

The  widow  was  obliged  to  admit  that  it 
was  too  true. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


121 


“ What  are  we  to  do !”  said  Humphrey, 
dejectedly.  “ I know  !”  he  added,  the  next 
moment  running  to  the  door. 

“Father!”  he  shouted,  “would  3’^ou  mind 
turning  your  head  away  for  a minute,  be- 
cause we’re  going  to  get  something  out  ot 
the  window.” 

Sir  Everard  immediately  became  engross- 
ed with  the  door  of  the  opposite  public- 
house,  to  the  great  discomfiture  of  one  of  his 
gardeners,  who  was  issuing  therefrom, 
slightly  inebriated,  and  had  been  doing  his 
best  to  escape  the  baronet’s  notice. 

Humphrey  was  delighted  with  the  cigar- 
cases.  They  were  so  brilliant  in  their  em- 
broidered covers.  He  was  particularly  at- 
tracted by  the  smallest  and  smartest. 

“ It  will  hold  so  very  few  cigars,”  sug- 
gested the  woman,  “ had  you  not  better  have 
a larger  one  ?” 

“ Oh,  that  doesn’t  matter  the  least,”  said 
Humphrey,  “ because  father  doesn’t  smoke. 
AS  long  as  it  is  smart  and  pretty  to  put  into 
his  pocket,  it  will  do  veiy  well.  Wrap  it 


II 


122 


MIS  ONMERSTOOD. 


up,  please,  so  as  to  hide  it  quite,  ji  case  he 
should  guess  by  the  shape.” 

The  widow  wrapped  it  in  several  covers, 
and  Humphrey  left  the  shop. 

“ You  did  not  see,  father,  I hope,”  he  said 
earnestly,  as  he  mounted  his  pony,  and  Sir 
Everard  assured  him  he  had  not  once  looked 
towards  the  window. 

“ How  much  ?”  asked  the  baronet,  as  the 
parcel  was  handed  up. 

“ Ten-and-sixpence,”  answered  the  shop- 
woman. 

Sir  Everard  hid  his  feelings,  and  paid  the 
money. 

“ Isn’t  it  cheap?”  said  Humphrey, as  they 
rode  off,  “ considering  it’s  all  embroidered 

with  gold,  and oh  ! dear  me ! I hope 

you  haven’t  guessed  by  that  ?” 

“ Far  from  it,”  answered  Sir  Everard ; “ I 
am  more  puzzled  than  ever;  for  I can’t 
conceive  what  you  could  have  found  in 
that  little  shop,  that  would  be  all  embroider- 
ed with  gold.” 

Humphrey  was  in  gr  eat  glee,  “ You 


MlSUNDEliSTOOD 


123 

ha*ren’'.  the  slightest  idea,  I suppose,  father 
what  it  is  ?” 

“ Not  the  remotest.” 

“ So  I know  something  you  don’t.  You 
often  tell  me  you  know  so  many  things  I 
Know  nothing  about.  Now  it  is  just  the 
other  way,  isn’t  it  ?” 

“Just  the  other  way,”  answered  the  baro- 
net, and  Humphrey  rode  on  in  a state  of 
great  elation. 

“ It’s  a dreadful  thing  to  have  a secret,” 
he  observed  presently,  after  having  once  or 
twice  begun  to  speak,  and  stopped  short. 

“ Why?”  inquired  his  father,  smiling. 

“ Oh ! so  dreadfully  difficult  to  keep,”  he 
answered.  “Two  or  three  times  I’ve  been 
beginning  to  talk  about  it,  and  forgetting 
you  weren’t  to  know.” 

“ Let’s  talk  of  something  else  then.” 

Another  pause,  and  then  Humphrey  said  : 
‘ Do  you  know,  father,  I think  you  had  bet- 
ter take  me  home?” 

“ Home  already ! are  you  tired  ?” 

“No — it  isn’t  that-  but  I know  if  I waif 


124 


MlHUmnMRk  TOOD. 


much  Icinger,  I shall  be  telling  you  the  secret 
before  I can  stop  myself.  If  I only  could 
tell  some  one,  I should  be  all  right ; so  that’s 
why  I want  to  get  home  to  Miles.” 

“ But  I want  to  call  on  General  Colville 
and  also  to  pay  old  Dyson  a visit.  Can  you 
last  a little  longer,  do  you  think?” 

Humphrey  was  fond  of  society,  and  so 
took  very  kindly  to  the  arrangement. 

“ Dyson  is  the  old  deaf  man,  isn’t  he  ? 
Was  he  born  deaf?” 

“ No ; it  is  only  of  late  years  that  he  has 
become  so.” 

“ I’m  glad  I wasn’t  born  deaf.  It  would 
have  been  a great  bore.  I wonder  Dyson 
doesn’t  buy  an  ear-trumpet.” 

“ I suppose,  poor  fellow,  he  can’t  afford  it.” 

“ I should  so  like  to  give  him  one.” 

“ But  where’s  your  money  ?” 

“ Ah ! there  it  is  again.  I never  do  have 
any  money.” 

“ I gave  you  a shilling  a very  little  while 
ago.” 

“ I bought  copper  caps,  and  hard-bake.” 


MIS  UND  EB  STOOD. 


£25 

“ Ah ! we  can’t  eat  our  cake,  and  havv,  it, 
you  know. 

“ Not  cake,  father — hardbake  !’* 

“ It’s  all  the  same.  Now,  if  you  wert  to 
save  up  your  money,  instead  of  buying  trash, 
you  would  be  able  to  buy  useful  things.” 

“ So  I will.  I’ll  begin  saving  directly  ; the 
very  next  shilling  you  give  me.  I’ll  put  away, 
and  go  on  till  I’ve  got  enough  to  buy  D)  son 
an  ear-trumpet.” 

“ That  will  be  a very  good  plan.” 

“ When  do  you  suppose  you’ll  be  giving 
me  another  shilling,  father  ?” 

“ Ah ! that  I don’t  know  at  all.” 

“ Hadn’t  you  better  be  beginning  pretty 
soon?  because  an  ear-trumpet  will  cost  a 
good  deal,  and  it  would  be  a pity  to  keep 
old  Dyson  waiting.” 

Sir  Everard  handed  him  a shilling,  say- 
ing, as  he  did  so : “ Now,  mind,  it  is  not  to 
be  spent  on  anything  else  and  Humphrey 
faithfully  promised  it  should  not. 

Old  Dyson  was  in  his  garden  when  the) 
passed,  so  they  drew  up  to  speak  to  him 


126  MISUNDEMSTOOD. 

He  was  not  so  deaf  as  to  be  unable  to  hear 
Sir  Everard’s  powerful  shout,  but  Hum 
phrey’s  little  attempts  were  futile. 

“ How  pleased  he’d  be,”  thought  Hum- 
phrey to  himself,  “ if  he  knew  I was  going 
to  save  up  my  mone}’  to  buy  him  an  ear- 
trumpet.” 

And  he  held  up  his  shilling  to  the  old 
man  in  triumph,  as  if  the  very  sight  of  it 
would  tell  him  the  whole  story. 

Dyson  smiled  and  nodded.  “Ay,  ay,  go- 
ing to  buy  sweeties,  I see !” 

Humphrey  shook  his  head  vehemently, 
and  tried  to  shout  an  explanation. 

“ No  !”  said  the  old  man  ; “ then  it’ll  be  a 
top,  maybe?” 

It  was  no  use  trying  to  make  him  under- 
stand ; and  as  Sir  Everard  was  moving  otF, 
Humphrey  was  obliged  to  follow,  shaking 
his  head  to  the  last. 

“ It  would  never  do  to  tell  old  Dyson  a 
secret,”  he  observed  to  his  father,  when  he 
overtook  aim. 

“ Why  not?” 


MIS  UNDERSTOOD. 


127 


“ Why,  you’d  have  to  scream  it  so  loud 
ill  his  ear  that  everj  one  would  hear.  It 
wouldn’t  be  much  of  a secret  when  all  the 
village  was  listening.  Supposing  I were  to 
shout  to  him,  ‘ Dyson,  I’m  going  to  give 
fat  her  a birthday  present,  and  it’s  a cigar 
ca — — Oh,  good  gracious  !”  said  Hum- 
phrey, pulling  up  his  pony,  “ I’ve  told  you 
my  secret ! Oh,  father,  did  you  guess  ?” 

Sir  Everard’s  attention  had  been  wander- 
ing, and  he  could  honestly  assure  the  child 
that  he  was  as  far  as  ever  from  knowing  the 
secret. 

“And  now,  here  we  are  at  General  Col- 
ville’s,” he  added ; “ so  you  will  have  lots  of 
things  to  distract  your  thoughts.” 

Sir  Everard  and  Humphrey  were  shown 
into  the  drawing-room  where  were  two 
ladies  and  some  children. 

Mrs.  Colville  came  forward  to  receive 
them,  and  informed  Sir  Everard  that  her 
husband  was  confined  to  his  room  with  a 
elight  attack  of  gout. 

Sir  Everard  immediately  volunteered  to 


128 


MIStlNDtlRSTOOl). 


go  and  see  him.  Mrs.  Colville  took  him  up* 
stairs,  and  Humphrey  was  left  with  the 
other  lady. 

“ What  is  you  name,  dear  ?”  she  asked. 

I’m  Humphrey  Duncombe,”  he  answer- 
ed, seating  himself  by  her  side.  “ Who  are 
you  ?” 

" I’m  Mrs.  Colville’s  sister,”  she  answered, 
smiling.  “ I suppose  you  don’t  remember 
me,  but  I have  seen  you  before,  at  your 
grandmother’s,  at  Banleigh.  I live  close  by.” 

“ I wonder  if  you  could  keep  a secret  ?” 
said  Humphrey  eagerly. 

“ Yes,  dear,  I think  so  ; but  why  ? Have 
you  got  one  to  tell  me  ?” 

“ A very  great  one.  I’ve  never  had  one 
before,  and  I don’t  like  it  at  all.  I mus^ 
tell  some  one,  or  else  I shall  be  telling  it  to 
father,  you  know.” 

“ But  why  not  tell  your  father  ? Surely 
he  would  be  the  best  person.” 

“ Tell  father  ! Mrs.  Colville’s  sister  ? 
Why,  he’s  just  the  very  person  who  isn’t 
to  know.” 


MISVNVEBSTO  OB. 


1^9 

“ Mrs.  Colville’s  sister”  had  been  half 
afraid  she  was  going  to  be  made  the  confi- 
dante  of  some  boyish  escapade  which  the 
child  had  concealed  from  his  father;  but 
flumphrey’s  open  face  disarmed  suspicion, 
and  she  listened  attentively  while  he  poured 
forth  his  tale. 

It  was  necessary  to  listen  attentively,  for, 
in  the  first  place,  Humphrey  was  in  such 
a hurry  to  get  to  his  point,  that  he  rather 
slurred  over  the  necessary  explanations ; 
and,  in  the  second  place,  he  insisted  on 
whispering  it  all  in  her  ear,  on  account  of 
the  presence  of  the  children. 

He  had  just  finished  his  story,  and  she 
was  making  solemn  protestations  of  the 
strictest  secrecy,  when  Mrs.  Colville  came 
oack. 

“ You  must  not  tell  even  her  you  know,” 
concluded  Humphrey ; and,  with  a sigh  of 
relief,  he  sat  down  again. 

Mrs.  Colville  was  one  of  those  mothers 
who  are  always  fancying  other  children  are 
better  dressed  than  their  own.  She  was  a 


130 


MiaOUBJSRSfOOV. 


great  copyist,  and  an  unscrupulous  borrowef 
of  patterns. 

Virginie  held  her  in  abhorrence.  She  had 
once  asked  for  the  pattern  of  Miles’s  blouse, 
and  Virginie  had  never  forgotten  or  forgiven 
Sir  Everard’s  ready  acquiescence. 

Mrs.  Colville  and  her  family  came  to  the 
same  church  as  the  Duncombes,  and  it  was 
almost  more  than  Virginie  could  stand  to 
see  other  children  dressed  like  her  young 
gentlemen. 

Mrs.  Colville — blinded,  a little,  like  most 
mothers — did  hot  see  that  what  suited  Hum- 
phrey and  Miles,  both  exceedingly  pretty 
children,  did  not  have  quite  the  same  effect 
on  her  nice,  but  decidedly  plain,  little  boys, 
and  went  steadily  on.  Whatever  appeared 
on  Humphrey’s  graceful  figure  one  Sunday, 
was  sure  to  be  reproduced  on  some  fat  little 
Colville  the  next. 

Men  do  not  notice  these  things.  Sir 
Everard  was  quite  unaware  of  what  went 
on,  but,  to  Virginie,  it  was  a constant  sour  ce 
of  annoyance. 


MIS  undmusiood. 


13* 

‘ That's  a pretty  suit,”  said  Mrs.  Colville 
sxamining  Humphrey’s  clothes. 

“Very,”  returned  her  sister;  “ they  fit  so 
well.” 

“ Come  here,  Clement,”  said  Mrs.  Colvihe 
to  a little  boy  in  the  distance ; “ there,  don’t 
you  see,  Mary,  how  differently  his  things 
set?” 

Mary  saw  wel!  enough,  and  saw  too  that 
it  was  figure  and  not  clothes  that  made  such 
a difference  between  the  two  boys,  but  she 
did  not  like  to  wound  her  sister’s  maternal 
vanity  by  saying  so. 

“Does  your  French  bonne  make  your 
clothes,  dear?”  Mrs.  Colville  inquired  of 
Humphrey. 

“ Not  mine,”  he  answered — only  Miles’s. 
Mine,”  he  added  with  great  pride,  “come 
from  a London  tailor’s.” 

“ Do  you  happen  to  remember  his 
name  ?” 

“ Swears  and  Wells,”  answered  Hum- 
phrey ; “ I went  there  once  to  see  ‘ Gulli- 
ver.’ I advise  you  to  go  and  see  him  when 


1^2  MISUNLMMSTOOD. 

you  are  in  JLondon.  You  can’t  think  how 
jolly  he  is !” 

“ I suppose,  of  course,  you  don’t  remem- 
ber the  direction?”  Of  course  Humphrey 
didn’t. 

“ Stop  a bit,”  he  said,  all  of  a suddea 
“ I’ve  seen  the  direction  written  somewhere 
quite  lately.  Where  could  I have  seen  it  ? 
Why,  since  I’ve  been  in  this  room  I’ve  read 
it.” 

“ Impossible,  my  dear  child,”  said  Mrs. 
Colville,  laughing. 

“ But  I have  really^'  getting  up  from  his 
chair  in  his  excitement ; “ I’ve  seen  the  num- 
ber and  the  name  of  the  street  written  some- 
where in  this  drawing-room.” 

“You  must  be  dreaming,  dear.” 

“ No,  I’m  quite  sure  I did.  Now  where 
could  it  have  been?  Did  I go  near  the 
writing-table  ?”  As  he  spoke,  he  advanced. 
‘ Or,  stop,  here  are  some  cards.  Did  I see 
it  written  on  a card  ?” 

“ No  ; I assure  you  Swears  and  We  Is  are 
not  visitors  of  mine.” 


M18  UNJ)  EltSlO  OB. 


133 


Humphrey  was  determined  not  to  give  it 
up,  and  in  spite  of  the  laughter  of  both  la- 
dies, he  got  up,  went  to  the  door,  and  made 
his  entry  all  over  again,  that  he  might  see 
what  he  could  have  passed  on  the  way  that 
might  have  had  the  direction  on  it. 

He  reflected  out  loud  as  he  went  along : 
“ I came  in  here  and  passed  the  table  (no, 
not  on  the  books,  or  the  work-basket,  or  the 
flower-stand).  Then  I stood  by  the  piano  a 
minute,  while  father  was  shaking  hands  with 
Mrs.  Colville  (no,  not  on  the  piano  or  the 
music).  Then  I shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Col- 
ville, then  I sat  down  on  the  sofa  by  her 
sister,  and  put  my  hat  by  my  side  so — and 

Oh !”  he  exclaimed,  so  suddenly  that  he 

startled  both  ladies,  “ here  it  is,  written  in- 
side my  hat ! That's  where  I saw  it — look  ! 
a little  ticket:  ‘Swears  and  Wells,  192  Re- 
gent Street.’  AirCt  you  glad,  Mrs.  Colville? 
Now  you’ll  be  able  to  find  the  shop.  Hadn’t 
you  oetter  write  it  down  ?” 

He  was  heart  and  soul  in  the  subject,  and 
did  not  perceive  the  amusement  he  gave 


12 


134 


MIS  VNDEItSTOOD. 


What  would  Virginie’s  feelings  have  been 
could  she  have  seen  the  name,  number  and 
address,  copied  with  great  accuracy  into 
Mrs.  Colville’s  “Where  is  it?”  and  to  make 
sure  there  should  be  no  mistake,  this  mem- 
orandum added  : “ a suit  such  as  was  lately 
made  for  Sir  E.  Buncombe’s  little  boy”  ? 

This  was  just  accomplished  when  Sir 
Everard  came  back. 

“ I’m  afraid  the  General  is  in  for  a sharp 
attack,  Mrs.  Colville.” 

“ I am  afraid  he  is — he  is  so  very  impru- 
dent. You  know  my  sister.  Sir  Everard  ?” 

Sir  Everard  advanced  with  a smile  of  rec- 
ognition. 

“ Is  it  possible  you  are  little  Mary  Wil- 
berforce?  I didn’t  recognize  you  just  now, 
you  are  grown  out  of  all  recollection.  To 
be  sure,  it  is  a long  time  since  I saw  you — 
three  or  four  years,  isn’t  it  ?” 

Mary  said  something  about  it  being  a long 
time,  but  she  did  not  like  to  particularize 
the  date,  though  she  remembered  it  per- 
fectly: because  Lady  Buncombe  had  been 


MISUNDMBSTOOD.  13J 

with  him  at  the  time,  and  she  was  afiaid  of 
recalling  painful  associations. 

“ And  when  did  you  leave  Banleigh  ?” 

“ About  a week  ago.” 

“ How  were  my  people  ?” 

“ I saw  Lady  Albinia  and  Miss  Buncombe 
the  day  before  I left.  They  were  both  very 
^ell.” 

A shy  smile  lighted  up  her  face  as  she 
mentioned  Miss  Buncombe.  There  was 
evidently  some  joke  about  her,  for  it  was 
reflected  on  Sir  Everard’s.  “ Poor  old  Ce- 
ciba,”  laughed  he. 

Miss  Buncombe  was  a lady  of  limited  in- 
tellect, and  exceedingly  young  for  her  age  ; 
and  everybody  was  at  liberty  to  laugh  at 
her.  They  talked  on  about  her  for  some 
time,  while  Humphrey  listened  with  all  his 
might,  and  then  Sir  Everard  took  his 
leave. 

“ I’m  better  now,”  said  Humphi’ey,  as 
they  rode  along. 

“ What ! were  you  not  feeling  well  ?”  said 
Sir  Everard,  alarmed. 


136 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


“ Oh,  jes ; but  I mean  about  my  secret 
What  makes  me  feel  better  is,  that  I’ve  told 
it  to  that  lady — Mrs.  Colville’s  sister.” 

“ I don’t  believe  you  will  ever  keep  that 
secret  for  ten  days  more.  Do  you  know 
my  birthday  is  not  till  Monday  week?” 

“ Oh  dear ! oh  dear ! I thought  it  was 
much  sooner  than  that.  Let’s  be  quick  and 
talk  of  something  else !” 

“ What  shall  we  talk  about  ? I am  ex- 
pecting two  gentlemen  down  from  London 
to-night,  to  spend  Sunday;  and  I’m  going 
to  meet  them  at  the  station,  as  soon  as  I 
have  taken  you  home  to  your  tea.  Will 
that  do  ?” 

“ Yes,  that  will  do.  Are  they  nice  gentle- 
men ?” 

“Yes,  I think  them  so:  but  then  tastes 
differ.  Perhaps  you  won’t.” 

“ Old  or  young  ?” 

“ Well!  one  is  a good  deal  older  than  me 
and ” 

“ White  hair,  then  of  course  ? ” put  in 
Humphrey 


MISUNDSBSTOOD 


137 

“ Greyish,  perhaps ; and  the  other  is  about 
the  age  of  your  uncle  Charlie.” 

“ Will  he  tell  us  such  nice  stories  about 
Kangaroos  and  boar-hunting  ?” 

“ I should  think  probably  not.  The  other 
one  is  more  likely  to  tell  you  stories,  as  he 
has  had  little  boys  of  his  own.” 

“ Miles  and  I know  of  a pond  where  the 
branch  of  a tree  hangs  over,  just  like  the  one 
in  Uncle  Charlie’s  story ; and  we  are  going 
to  crawl  along  it  some  day,  and  look  down 
at  our  faces  in  the  water,  like  the  man  did.” 

“Now,  Humphrey,”  said  Sir  Everard,  “ I 
won’t  have  it  done.  The  branch  is  quite 
rotten,  and  may  break  off  any  minute.” 

Humphrey  looked  very  mournful.  “ Arc 
you  quite  sure,  father  ?” 

“ Quite  sure ; and  I forbid  you  to  do  it. 
Do  you  hear  ?” 

“Very  well,  father,”  with  a sigh;  “we 
ivon’t  crawl  along,  if  you  don’t  like  it ; but 
fou  won’t  mind  our  going  to  look  at  it? 
We’ve  been  prevented  so  many  times,  and 
we  do  so  want  to  go  there!  If  wi  pronUsi 
12* 


MISUSDEBSTOOD. 


138 

not  to  climb,  you  won’t  say  we’re  not  to  go 
will  you  ?” 

“ Yes — once  for  all,  I say  you  are  not  to 
go  near  the  pond ; and  I trust  to  you.  Hum 
phrey,  to  obey  me.  Promise.” 

“ It’s  a great  pity,  father !” 

“ Never  mind.  I won’t  have  Miles  led 
into  any  more  mischief.” 

Humphrey  promised  rather  reluctantly 
adding  to  himself : “ It’s  not  much  use 
making  me  promise  anything,  because  I’m 
sure  to  forget.” 

They  rode  on  in  silence  for  some  time  after 
this;  and  when  Humphrey  next  spoke,  it 
was  on  quite  a different  subject. 

“ I didn’t  know  till  to-day,  father,  that  you 
didn’t  like  Aunt  Cecilia !” 

“What  do  you  mean,  Humphrey?”  said 
Sir  Everard,  horrified. 

“You  spoke  as  if  you  didn’t  much  like 
her,  to  Mrs.  Colville’s  sister.” 

“ Why,  what  did  I say  ?”  said  Sir  Everard, 
hastily  casting  back  his  thoughts  to  the  com 
versation 


UISUJUDSBSTOOD. 


139 

“ Well,  you  seemed  to  laugh  at  her  a 
good  deal.” 

“ My  dear  child,”  said  Sir  Everard,  re- 
jeved,  “ having  a little  joke  about  a person 
does  not  prove  one  does  not  like  that  per 
son.  I am  very  fond  of  your  Aunt.  It 
would  be  odd  indeed  if  I did  not  like  my 
only  sister.  Why,  when  I laugh  at  you  and 
Miles,  do  you  think  I do  not  like  you  ?” 

It  was  a lame  sentence,  badly  put  together, 
and  not  expressing  much.  Sir  Everard  was 
not  at  all  satisfied  with  it  himself.  He  had 
got  it  up  in  such  a hurry  that  he  was  not  at 
all  sure  whether  it  was  sense  or  not,  and  he 
was  anxious  to  see  if  it  would  answer  its 
purpose.  Children  are  sometimes,  however, 
very  easily  silenced ; and  Humphrey  re- 
ceived the  explanation  with  great  respect. 

The  danger  was  past,  for  this  time;  but 
Sir  Everard^  inwardly  resolved  never  to 
speak  before  the  children  again ; and  the 
anxieties  of  the  evening  before  recurring  at 
the  same  moment  to  his  mind,  he  determ  ined 
not  to  run  any  more  risks. 


140 


MISUNDERSTOOD, 


So,  on  arriving  at  home,  he  sent  up  a pri 
vate  message  to  Virginie  that  he  should  not 
require  either  of  the  young  gentlemen  down- 
stairs that  evening,  though  they  might  come 
to  his  dressing-room  as  usual. 

Then,  after  transferring  the  precious  par 
cel  from  his  own  to  Humphrey’s  pocket,  he 
wished  the  boy  ‘‘good-bye,”  and  went  to 
meet  his  friends  at  the  station. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


H E next  day  was  Sunday,  and  a hope- 


JL  lessly  wet  one.  Humphrey  and  Miles 
made  great  friends  with  their  father’s  guests 
at  breakfast — the  former  giving  them  the 
whole  account  of  the  aborigines’  dinner- 
party and  the  birthday  present. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  Sir  Eve- 
rard  and  one  of  his  friends  went  into  the 
library  to  look  for  a book  they  had  been 
talking  about,  and  the  two  little  boys  were 
left  with  the  other  gentleman. 

Presently  Virginie  looked  m.  “ M.  Hum 
phrey ! M.  Miles !” 

Little  Miles  jumped  up,  and  went  to  the 
door,  but  Humphrey  took  no  notice. 

" Je  vous  attends,  M.  Humphrey.” 


(i4>) 


142 


MIS  UND MUST  0 01). 


“ I’m  not  coming,”  said  Humphrey.  “ I’m 
going  to  stay  and  amuse  this  gentleman.” 

“Je  reviendrai  bientot,”  said  Virginie 
and  she  went  away,  with  Miles. 

“ Is  your  nurse  French?”  enquired  Colonel 
Sturt. 

“Yes — she’s  French.” 

“ Then  why  do  you  speak  to  her  in  Eng- 
lish?” 

“ I never  speak  French  on  Sunday,” 
answered  Humphrey ; “ I don’t  think  it’s 
right.” 

“ Not  right ! Why  not  ?” 

“ Lessons  are  wrong  on  Sunday ; and 
French  is  a sort  of  lessons — so  French  must 
be  wrong  too.” 

“ Humphie,”  said  little  Miles,  running  in : 
“ Virginie  says  you  must  come,  or  you’ll  be 
late  for  chairs.” 

“ What  does  he  mean  ?”  asked  Colone. 
Sturt. 

“ He  means  prayers,”  answered  Hum- 
phrey ; “ he  always  calls  them  ‘ chairs 
because  he  only  sees  the  long  rows  before 


MISUNDEMSTOOD. 


143 


we  begin,  as  he’s  too  young  to  stay.  I sup- 
pose, as  it’s  so  wet,  we  are  not  going  to 
church.” 

“Oh,  that’s  it — is  it?  Well  I’m  inclined 
o think  you  ought  to  go  then,  Humpty- 
Dumpty,  or  whatever  it  is  he  calls  you.” 

The  little  boys  thought  this  a capital  joke. 

“Why,  Humpty-Dumpty  was  the  man 
who  sat  on  a wall !” 

“ Yes,  and  had  a great  fall — which  is  just 
what  you’ll  do  in  a minute,”  said  the  Colonel 
to  Humphrey,  who  had  climbed  up  the  back 
of  his  chair,  and  was  sitting  astride  on  the 
top. 

“ Humpty  - Dumpty  was  an  egg,”  said 
Humphrey.  “ / don’t  break  so  easily. 
Come  along.  Miles.”  And  he  jumped  down 
and  ran  off,  followed  by  his  brother,  both 
singing : 

“ Humpty-Dumpty  sat  on  a wall, 
Humpty-Dumpty  had  a great  fall.” 

The  echoes  of  their  mer’^y  voices  diec' 
away  as  they  ran  up-stairs,  and  the  cor 
eluding  words  were  not  distinguishable. 


X44 


M in  UNDERSTO  OR. 


Five  minutes  after,  the  gong  sounded, 
and  the  servants  filed  into  the  library. 

Humphrey  was  in  his  place  by  his  father, 
Mr  Wemyss  seated  near,  and  everything 
ready.  But  Colonel  Sturt  had  not  appear- 
ed. Humphrey  looked  up  anxiously  at 
every  sound. 

Sir  Everard  concluded  he  did  not  mean 
to  come,  so  he  opened  his  book,  and  signed 
to  one  of  the  servants  to  shut  the  door. 
Humphrey’s  restless  eyes  followed  his  friend 
William’s  movements  as  he  rose  to  obey. 
The  next  moment  he  was  convulsed  with 
laughter,  and  could  scarcely  restrain  himself. 

No  one  else  seemed  to  see  anything 
amusing,  and  Sir  Everard  began  to  read 
with  his  usual  gravity;  but  Humphrey, 
though  he  got  better  as  the  service  pro- 
ceeded, did  not  dare  glance  towards  the 
servants’  end  of  the  room,  and  had  to  keep 
his  eyes  fixed  on  his  prayer-book,  for  fear 
they  should  be  tempted  to  stray  in  that  di- 
rection. What  was  it  that  had  tickled  the 
boy’s  fancy? 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


145 


Only  that  just  as  William  was  closing  the 
door,  the  missing  gentleman  had  slipped 
quietly  in  and  unconsciously  seated  himself 
in  the  footman’s  vacant  place  at  the  end  of 
the  long  line  of  servants,  where  he  remained 
during  the  rest  of  the  service. 

The  sight  of  him  there,  combined  with 
the  expression  of  William’s  face  at  finding 
his  place  occupied,  had  at  first  completely 
upset  Humphrey ; but,  after  a time,  the 
veneration  for  solemn  things,  which  was  so 
prominent  a feature  in  his  character,  came 
to  his  help  and  he  became  engrossed  in  his 
responses. 

The  afternoon  proving  as  wet  as  the 
morning,  Sir  Everard,  for  want  of  some- 
thing better  to  do,  showed  his  friends  over 
the  house.  He  had  a few  good  pictures,, 
and  the  ceiling  of  one  of  the  upper  rooms; 
was  curiously  painted  ; otherwise  there  was, 
not  much  to  see. 

Wandering  about  a thinly-inhabited  house 
on  a wet  day  is  always  rather  depressing 
and  it  would  have  been  a melancholy  busi- 

13 


MIS UND ERSTOOD 


146 

ness,  but  for  the  children.  But  Hutnphrej 
and  Miles  chased  each  other  along  the  pass, 
ages,  and  made  the  unoccupied  rooms  ring 
with  their  merry  voices.  They  were  very 
anxious  to  do  the  honors  of  their  own  apart 
ments,  when,  in  due  course,  the  nurseries 
were  reached. 

“ This  is  my  bed,”  proclaimed  Humphrey 
and  “ Here  is  my  bath,”  announced  Miles. 

“ But  what’s  this  ?”  said  Colonel  Sturt, 
taking  up  an  embroidered  cigar-case  that 
lay  upon  the  table. 

A shriek  was  the  only  answer. 

Colonel  Sturt  nearly  dropped  the  cigaj- 
case  in  his  consternation ; Sir  Everard  turn- 
ed hastily  round ; and  Humphrey,  snatching 
it  up,  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

“ What  is  the  matter?”  asked  Sir  Everard. 

“It  was  the  birthday  present !”  s,?iidi\i\X\Q 
Miles,  in  an  awe-struck  whisper. 

Sir  Everard  followed  Humphrey  to  assure 
him  he  had  not  seen  anything  ; which  made 
matters  rather  worse,  as  he  found  him  in  the 
act  of  hiding  it  in  Virginie’s  band-box,  undei 


MISUNDEUSTO  OD. 


147 

her  best  Sunday  bonnet.  With  some  ditfi 
culty  he  reassured  the  boy,  and  brought 
him  back. 

“ It  was  a near  thing,  though,”  observed 
Humphrey,  with  a sigh  of  relief. 

Colonel  Sturt  was  now  almost  afraid  to 
remark  on  anything  else ; but  a shilling  con- 
cealed in  a tooth-glass  attracted  his  attention 

“ Oh,  that’s  my  money,”  explained  Hum 
phrey,  “ that  I am  saving  to  buy  old  Dyson 
an  ear-trumpet  with.  It  was  the  only  safi 
place  I could  find  to  keep  it  in.” 

“ How  much  will  it  cost  ?”  asked  the 
Colonel. 

“ Seventeen  shillings,  I believe.” 

“And  how  much  have  you  got  ?” 

“Well,  only  that  yet,”  answered  the  boy, 
pointing  to  the  solitary  shilling  ; “ but  then 
you  know,  I only  began  yesterday.” 

Colonel  Sturt  asked  a good  many  ques- 
tions about  old  Dyson,  and  then  took  half-a- 
sovereign  from  his  pocket,  and  dropped  it 
into  the  tooth-glass  “ That’s  ray  contribu 
tion,  ’ said  he. 


148 


MISUNBEUSTOOD. 


Humphrey  was  too  much  excited  by  this 
unexpected  munificence  to  make  civil 
speeches ; but  his  unfeigned  surprise  and 
delight  were  worth  all  the  thanks  in  the 
world.  He  ran  after  his  father  to  exhibit 
his  treasure,  and  returned  breathless. 

“ Only  think !”  he  said  to  Colonel  Sturt, 
“ that  other  gentlemen  has  given  me  six 
shillings ; so  now  I can  buy  the  trumpet 
directly,  and  I thought  it  would  be  weeks 
and  weeks  before  I got  it !” 

The  children  were  now  summoned  to 
their  tea,  and  told  to  wish  the  gentlemen 
“ good  - night,”  as  they  were  not  to  come 
down  to  dinner. 

But  Humphrey  first  extorted  a promise 
from  Colonel  Sturt,  that  he  would  go  to  the 
ear-trumpet  shop  the  next  day,  the  very 
minute  he  arrived  in  London,  and  have  it 
sent  off  directly. 

Sir  Everard  had  nearly  finished  dressing 
that  evening,  when  the  door  was  thrown 
open,  and  both  boys  rushed  into  the  room. 

“ There ! take  it  father,”  said  Humphrey 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


149 


holding  out  the  cigar-case — “ that’s  for  you. 
That’s  your  birthday  present — the  grand 
secret!  It’s  no  use  our  trying  to  keep  it 
any  longer,  because  we  cant  /” 

“Are  you  surprised,  Fardie  ?’’  asked  little 
Miles,  clapping  his  hands,  and  Humphrey 
eagerly  repeated  the  question. 

Sir  Everard  could,  with  all  truth,  assure 
the  children  that  he  had  never  been  so  sur- 
prised in  his  life ; for,  as  he  did  not  smoke 
certainly  the  very  last  present  he  would 
have  expected  was  a cigar-case ! 

But  his  pleasure  and  gratitude  were  so 
well  feigned,  that  the  children  went  to  bed 
highly  delighted  with  the  success  of  their 
birthday  present 


CHAPTER  VIII 
“ OOD-BYE,  Humpty-Dumpt}' ! The 


VJ  trumpet  shall  be  at  the  station  at 
five  o’clock  this  afternoon  without  fail.” 

So  spoke  Colonel  Sturt,  as  Sir  Everard 
drove  his  two  friends  from  the  door  the 
next  morning. 

Humphrey  waved  his  hat  in  answer,  and 
flew  off  to  make  arrangements  with  Virginie 
for  going  to  the  station  to  meet  it.  He 
had  his  father’s  leave  for  himself  and  Miles 
to  go  there  with  the  coachman,  and  to  be 
dropped  afterwards  at  old  Dyson’s,  where 
Virginie  was  to  meet  them,  and  bring  them 
home. 

Nothing  could  be  more  perfect ! At  about 
half-past  four,  the  dog-cart  drove  up  to  the 
door,  and  off  they  went,  followed  by  many 


(150) 


MISUHTDERSTOOD. 


151 


parting  injunctions  from  Virginia  as  to  get 
ting  in  and  out  carefully,  and  sitting  very 
still. 

The  trumpet  was  waiting  at  the  station, 
and  was  safely  delivered  into  their  eager 
hands. 

On  the  way  to  old  Dyson’s,  Humphrey 
opened  the  parcel,  and  displayed  the  ear- 
trumpet  to  Miles. 

Never  had  they  seen  so  curious  an  article ! 
It  was  composed  of  three  tubes,  each  fitting 
into  the  next,  and  it  lengthened  or  shortened 
at  will. 

Humphrey  got  very  impatient  to  arrive, 
and  tried  to  persuade  the  coachman  to  whip 
up  the  horse  into  a gallop ; but  steady  old 
Peter  didn’t  see  it  at  all. 

Humphrey  then  amused  himself  by  length- 
ening out  the  tubes,  and  trumpeting  loudly 
through  them ; causing  the  horse  to  start  so 
violently,  that  little  Miles  was  almost  pitched 
out.  Then,  in  shutting  it  up  again,  he  drop- 
ped it  into  the  road,  and  they  had  to  wait 
while  he  got  out  and  picked  it  up. 


£52 


MIS  UN  DEB  STOOD. 


All  this  causing  a delay,  Peter  was  told 
on  arriving  at  the  cottage,  that  Virginie  had 
already  been  there,  but  that,  finding  she  was 
too  soon,  she  had  vralked  on  to  the  village, 
and  was  to  call  again  in  a few  minutes. 

This  information  he  gathered  from  a 
woman  who  was  standing  at  the  gate,  anc 
who  assisted  the  children  to  alight. 

Then,  having  deposited  them  safely,  Peter 
drove  off ; and  Humphrey,  brandishing  his 
trumpet,  rushed  down  the  little  garden,  and 
beat  a thundering  tattoo  on  old  Dj^son’s  door. 
But,  loud  as  it  was,  it  did  not  make  any 
impression  on  the  deaf  old  man,  who  was 
sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  indulging  in  an 
afternoon  nap. 

One  minute  Humphrey  waited,  and  then 
his  patience  gave  way.  He  raised  the 
latch,  and  the  two  children  entered  the 
cottage. 

“ He’s  asleep,”  whispered  Miles. 

“ You  must  go  and  give  him  a little  shake,’ 
said  Humphrey. 

Miles  advanced  timidly.  He  didn’t  much 


MIS  XTNDEESTO  OM. 


iS3 

like  the  job,  but  disobedience  to  Humphrey 
was  a thing  he  never  dreamt  of. 

Humphrey  hid  the  trumpet  behind  hina, 
and  waited  eagerly. 

Miles’s  gentle  shake  produced  no  effect  at 
all ; Dyson  only  smiled  pleasantly  in  his 
sleep. 

“ Shake  his  hand,”  said  Humphrey. 

Miles  looked  doubtfully  at  the  horny  hand 
lying  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  flushed  a 
little  as  he  put  his  tiny  fingers  upon  it.  But 
the  old  man  did  not  move. 

“Harder!”  cried  Huniphrey. 

Miles  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost,  and 
succeeded  better,  for  the  old  man  turned 
over  to  one  side  of  his  chair,  and  lifted  his 
head  a little. 

Miles  retreated  a few  steps.  But  it  was  a 
false  alarm,  for  old  Dyson’s  head  fell  for- 
ward again. 

“ You  must  jump  on  his  knee.  Miles.” 

The  pretty  little  face  lengthened  con- 
siderably. 

“ Oh,  Humphie  ! must  I ’■eally  ?” 


*54 


MISUNDUBSTOOD. 


“ Why  not?” 

“ Don’t  much  like  it,  Humphie.” 

“What!  afraid  of  poor  old  Dyson ! Nevei 
mind,  I’ll  do  it.” 

And,  putting  the  trumpet  on  the  floor, 
Humphrey  sprang  upon  the  old  man,  and 
shook  him  so  vigorously  that  he  woke  in  a 
fright;  but  when  he  saw  his  little  visitors) 
he  sat  down  again  with  a smile,  saying, 
“Aye,  aye,  Mamselle  said  I was  to  expect 
you ; and  how  are  ye  to-day,  my  pretty 
dears  ?” 

“ Quite  well,  thank  you,”  said  Miles, 
drawing  nearer. 

Dyson  put  his  hand  behind  his  ear : “ I 
don’t  hear  what  you  say,”  he  said,  rather 
sadly ; “ I’m  an  old  man,  and  I’m  getting 
deafer  every  day.” 

Humphrey  chuckled  with  delight,  and 
Miles  looked  up  smiling. 

“ He’ll  hear  soon,  won’t  he,  Humphie?” 

“ Dyson  1”  shouted  Humphrey,  backing  a 
few  steps  and  beckoning,  “ come  here.” 

The  unsuspecting  old  man  rose  and  ad- 


MISUNDERS2  OOD. 


155 

vanced.  The  boy  was  watching  his  oppor 
tunity,  and  directly  he  was  near  enough 
Humphrey  snatched  up  the  trumpet,  and 
putting  it  up,  shouted  such  a How  are 
you?’'  into  the  old  man’s  ear,  that  the  shock 
caused  Dyson  to  bound  into  the  air,  and 
then  fall  backwards  with  such  force,  that  if 
he  had  not  providentially  fallen  into  his  chair, 
he  might  never  have  survived  to  tell  the  tale. 
And  there  he  remained,  sputtering  and  pant- 
ing, shaking  his  head  about,  as  if  he  felt  he 
would  never  get  rid  of  the  vibration. 

The  two  little  boys  stood  aghast.  As 
good  luck  would  have  it,  the  woman  who 
had  met  them  at  the  gate  was  of  an  inquisi- 
tive disposition ; and  wondering  what  was 
going  on  in  the  cottage,  she  had  for  some 
time  been  peeping  in  at  the  window. 

She  understood  at  once  the  position  of 
affairs,  and  came  hastily  in. 

Raising  the  old  man  from  his  chair,  she 
explained  to  him  what  had  happened.  It 
was  some  minutes  before  he  understood,  for 
he  was  bewildered  and  alarmed : but  he 


156 


MIISUNDEBSTCOD, 


took  it  in  at  last,  and  the  children  had  tne 
satisfaction  of  receiving  his  thanks,  and  as- 
surances that  he  was  by  no  means  ungrate- 
ful for  their  present. 

Then  the  woman  spoke  gently  to  him 
through  the  trumpet,  and  his  look  of  plea- 
sure at  hearing  so  clearly,  and  his  ‘‘Well! 
to  be  sure was  a great  delight  to  the  two 
little  boys. 

When  Dyson  had  got  accustomed  to  the 
sound,  he  declared  himself  willing  for  Hum- 
phrey to  try  again,  but  the  woman  suggest- 
ed that  Miles’s  voice  was  the  softest,  to 
which  Humphrey  agreed. 

Miles  took  up  the  trumpet,  and  his  gentle 
“ Fm  so  sorry  Hurnphie  made  you  jump,” 
was  whispered  so  quietly,  that  Dyson  only 
just  caught  the  sound. 

Then  the  old  man  held  it  out  to  Hum- 
phrey, who,  not  expecting  it,  had  not  got 
anything  to  say.  So  no  sooner  had  ne  put 
his  lips  to  it  than  he  went  off  into  such  fits 
of  laughter,  that  Dyson  hastily  removed  the 
trumpet,  and  began  to  rub  his  ear,  “A3 e. 


MISUNDBU8T00D. 


157 

Dut  it  does  tickle  so.’  This  made  Hum 
phrey  laugh  more,  and  the  woman  advised 
his  abandoning  the  attempt  for  that  day. 

By  this  time,  however,  Dyson  had  got  so 
pleased  with  his  new  accomplishment,  that 
he  declared  it  his  intention  to  go  and  pay 
some  visits  in  the  village,  saying  it  was 
several  years  since  he  had  had  a good  chat 
with  his  neighbors. 

But  they  all  went,  the  old  man  hurrying 
on  at  a great  rate,  so  eager  was  he  to  show 
off  his  newly-recovered  powers. 

The  first  person  they  met  was  Virginie, 
and  Dyson  said  he  must  have  a word  with 
“ Mamselle.” 

Humphrey  was  in  an  excited  state,  readv 
for  anything ; so  while  Virginie  was  talking, 
he  called  Miles,  and  told  him  he  thought  it 
would  be  a capital  evening  for  the  pond 
where  the  water-lilies  grew.  There  was  a 
stile  at  the  side  of  the  road,  which  he  knew 
to  be  a short  cut  to  the  pond,  and  he 
had  no  doubt  they  would  be  able  to  find 
their  way. 


14 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


158 

No  recolltction  of  his  promise  to  his  father 
troubled  his  conscience ; and  as  they  were 
not  going  to  climb  the  tree,  even  Virginie 
could  not  object ! I 

So  he  helped  his  little  brother  over  the 
stile,  and  then  they  both  ran  with  all  their 
might. 

Meanwhile  Virginie,  talking  affably  through 
the  trumpet,  in  the  high  road,  did  not  notice 
that  they  had  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


HERE  was  an  unusual  stir  in  the  quiet 


-JL  household  of  Wareham  Abbey  tr.at 
evening ; for  at  nearly  eight  o’clock  the  tw  T 
little  boys  had  not  returned  home. 

Virginie  had  not  been  very  much  con- 
cerned at  their  absence  during  the  first  few 
hours,  as  they  very  often  ran  on  before  her, 
and  then  betook  themselves  to  some  of  their 
favorite  haunts. 

But  when  tea-time  came  and  passed,  she 
got  uneasy,  and  went  to  look  for  them. 
Her  uneasiness  changed  to  alarm  when  she 
had  visited  in  vain  the  dairy,  laundry,  swing, 
gardens,  and  dog-kennel.  Then,  when  it 
came  on  to  rain,  her  anxiety  increased ; and 
when  from  drizzling  it  changed  to  a stead j! 
down-pom  her  “nerves’  gave  way  com 


(>S9) 


l6o  MISUNDEBSTOOD. 

pletelj,  and  she  returned  home  to  consult 
with  the  other  servants  as  to  what  steps  had 
best  be  taken. 

She  went  into  the  housekeeper’s  room, 
wringing  her  hands,  and  prognosticating 
all  sorts  of  evils  to  Miles.  “ Never,  never, 
would  he  recover  from  the  effects  of  such  a 
wetting!” 

The  gardener  was  dispatched  one  way 
and  the  coachman  another,  bearing  umbrel 
las  and  goloshes. 

The  two  little  culprits  were  soon  discov 
ered  sitting  in  a damp  ditch,  sheltering  them 
selves  under  a hedge. 

Humphrey  took  great  credit  to  himself 
for  having  hit  upon  this  plan. 

“ The  fact  was,”  he  said,  “ the  pond  and 
the  water-lilies  had  been  so  engrossing,  that 
he  had  forgotten  all  about  the  time  till  he 
saw  the  sun  beginning  to  sink ; then  start- 
ing off  in  a great  hurry,  they  had  taken  the 
wrong  turning  out  of  the  field,  and  lost 
their  way  in  the  wood  ” 

They  were  wandering  on  in  the  wrong 


MISITNDMJRSTOOD.  i6| 

direction,  when  they  met  a boy,  who  had 
pointed  out  their  mistake,  and  brought  them 
nack  to  the  h gh  road.  Here  Humphrey 
nad  suddenly  recollected  that  rain  was  apt 
to  give  his  little  brother  cold,  and  with 
great  pride  in  his  own  forethought  had  es- 
tablished him,  dripping  wet  as  he  already 
was,  under  the  hedge  where  they  had  been 
sitting  for  about  half  an  hour  before  the 
coachman  found  them. 

It  was  no  use  Virginie  venting  her  wrath 
upon  Humphrey.  All  that  could  be  done 
now,  was  to  get  Miles  into  bed  as  quickly  as 
could  be,  and  ward  off  ill  effects  if  possible. 

But  the  mischief  was  done.  Miles  tossed 
about  all  night,  and  woke  next  morning  with 
an  oppression  on  his  chest,  which  was  al. 
ways  with  him  the  forerunner  of  an  attack 
on  the  lungs. 

The  doctor  came  to  see  him,  and  ordered 
him  to  be  kept  in  bed. 

Humphrey  spent  the  morning  with  his 
little  brother,  but  was  dismissed  at  last,  as 
walking  only  made  Miles  cough.  * 

14* 


|62  MISUUJi  ebstood. 

In  the  afternoon  Miles  got  worse,  and 
VTirginie  sent  off  again  for  the  doctor. 

Humphrey  kept  out  of  her  way,  feeling 
that  he  was  in  disgrace,  and  went  out  into 
the  garden.  He  felt  dull  and  solitary  with- 
out his  little  brother,  but,  childlike,  he  had 
not  begun  to  be  anxious,  for  Miles  had  often 
been  ill  before,  and  had  always  got  well 
again.  Still  there  was  no  fun  in  anything 
without  him,  no  exploit  any  satisfaction 
without  his  applause.  Humphrey  betook 
himself  at  last  to  the  little  gardens,  where 
he  had  a friend  in  the  person  of  Dolly,  the 
laundry-maid.  The  gardens  were  close  to 
the  laundr}!-,  and  often,  when  she  was  ironing 
at  the  window,  Dolly  had  watched  the  chil- 
dren at  their  play,  an  i overheard  their  long 
conversations.  She  was  perhaps  the  onlji 
person  who  had  seen  Humphrey  in  his  seri- 
ous moods.  Unknown  to  him,  she  had  wit- 
nessed one  of  his  rare  bursts  of  feeling  at 
the  time  of  his  mother’s  death,  and  after 
that,  had  ever  been  one  of  his  staunchest 
supporters.  She  could  never  forget  how 


MIS  UND ERST 0 01},  163 

the  little  fellow  had  sobbed  over  the  mus* 
tard  and  cress  he  had  sown  for  his  mother 
and  which  had  come  up  too  late ! 

The  weather  had  been  dry  for  some  time 
previousl}^,  and  it  had  shown  no  sign  of  com- 
ing up.  Every  day  he  had  visited  it,  that 
he  might  cut  it  for  her  to  eat  with  her  after- 
noon tea ; but  every  visit  had  been  in  vain. 
Then,  on  that  sad  day,  when  the  funeral 
train  had  borne  away  all  that  remained  of 
her,  he  had  come  to  his  garden  in  his  rest- 
less longing  to  escape  from  his  sorrow,  and 
the  first  thing  that  had  met  his  eye  was  the 
green  A.  D.  mocking  him  with  its  freshness 
and  luxuriance. 

It’s  no  use  now,”  Dolly  had  heard  him 
sob  ; ‘‘  I wish  it  had  never  come  up  !” 

This  was  the  very  day  he  had  been  chas- 
ing tne  young  lambs  in  the  meadow,  while 
his  father  watched  him  from  the  window 
and  this  was  how  it  had  ended. 

Humphrey  found  a good  deal  to  do  in  his 
gaiden,  and  worked  away  busily  for  some 


164 


MISJTNDESSTOOD. 


time : he  then  assisted  Dolly  to  turn  the 
mangle,  and  bottled  some  soap-suds  for  fi< 
ture  bubble  blowing.  He  also  informed  hel 
of  the  honor  in  store  for  her  at  the  Harves 
Home,  and  anxiously  asked  her  what  gown 
she  meant  to  wear  cn  the  occasion.  She 
must  be  very  smart,  he  said,  awfully  smart ! 
Dolly  confided  her  intention  of  investing  in 
a new  print  dress,  and  consulted  him  as  to 
the  color. 

Casting  his  thoughts  back  to  the  smartest 
thing  he  had  lately  seen,  they  reverted  to 
the  cigar-case,  and  he  suggested  crimson 
and  gold. 

Dolly  looked  rather  scared,  and  expressed 
her  doubts  as  to  the  probability  of  those 
colors  being  found  in  any  print  sold  in  the 
village. 

“Yellow  would  do,  you  know,”  said  Hum- 
phrey, “ and  it  would  be  like  the  corn.” 

So  Dolly  promised  to  try  and  procure  a 
yellow  print,  with  a red  stripe  or  spot;  and, 
if  that  were  impossible,  a plain  yellow  one 
could  no  doubt  be  found. 


MIS  XJNV  EM  STOOD. 


165 

Time  slipped  by  very  quickly,  but  still 
Humphrey  rather  wondered  at  last  that  no 
one  should  call  him  in  to  his  tea ; and  after 
a while  he  put  his  tools  away,  and  wished 
Dolly  good-bye. 

He  gathered  a few  young  radishes  for  a 
treat  for  Miles,  and  then  ran  home. 

He  was  surprised  to  find  the  nursery  door 
locked,  and  began  to  kick  it. 

“ Miles !”  he  called  out,  “ I’ve  brought 
you  some  radishes.  Ouvrez,  Virginie,  c’est 
r.oi !’ 

The  door  was  opened  with  an  angry  jerk, 
and  Virginie  flounced  into  the  passage. 

Humphrey  saw  at  a glance  that  she  was 
in  one  of  what  he  and  Miles  called  “ her 
states,”  but  whether  it  was  of  anger  or 
alarm,  he  could  not  at  first  make  out.  It 
was  always  a bad  sign  when  her  face  was 
enveloped  in  flannel,  as  was  now  the  case. 
Virginie  always  tied  up  her  face  on  the 
smallest  provocation,  though  to  what  end 
the  children  had  never  discovered.  But 
anyhow,  she  was  sure  to  be  out  of  tempei 


i66 


MISUifDSBSTOOD. 


when  she  did  so,  and  Humphrey  waited 
rather  anxiously  to  hear  what  she  had  to 
say. 

She  burst  into  a voluble  flow  of  talk, 
which,  owing  to  her  excitement,  the  boy 
found  it  difficult  to  follow.  He  managed 
however,  to  gather  that  Miles  was  very, 
very  ill,  that  the  doctor  was  very  much 
alarmed  about  him ; that  it  was  all  his 
(Humphrey’s)  fault ; that  he  had  woke  Miles 
by  kicking  at  the  door  just  as  she  had  hoped 
he  was  going  to  get  some  sleep ; that  he 
was  to  go  away  and  keep  away,  and  that 
everybody,  including  the  doctor,  was  very 
angry  with  him. 

Then  she  retreated  into  the  room,  and 
shut  the  door,  leaving  him  standing  in  the 
passage,  with  his  bunch  of  radishes  in  his 
hand. 

All  the  light  faded  out  of  Humphrey’s 
face,  as  he  tried  to  think  over  what  he  had 
just  heard. 

“Miles  so  ill  that  the  doctor  was  tright 
ened.” 


MIS  UNDERSTO  OB, 


i6; 

That  was  the  most  prominent  idea  at  first, 
and  in  his  dread  and  apprehension,  Hum« 
phrey  hardly  dared  move. 

Sometimes  he  put  his  eye  to  the  keyhole, 
to  see  if  he  could  discover  what  was  going 
on  in  the  room,  and  then,  lying  down  on  the 
door-mat,  he  listened  with  all  his  might. 

The  silence  within,  only  broken  by  whis- 
pering voices,  frightened  him,  and  his  heart 
began  to  beat  loudly. 

If  only  the  child  could  have  looked  into 
the  room  and  seen  his  little  brother  lying  in 
bed  half  asleep,  and  Virginie  putting  a lin- 
seed  poultice  on  his  chest,  or  whispering  to 
Jane  to  bring  her  his  cooling-draught,  his 
fears  would  have  vanished. 

But  it  is  ever  so  with  sudden  illness 
Those  who  are  kept  in  the  dark  always 
have  the  worst  of  it ; for  mystery  and  sus- 
pense are,  like  anticipation,  always  worse 
than  reality.  Imagination  runs  riot,  and 
brings  great  suffering  to  the  outsiders 
How  much  are  children  to  be  pitied  on 
these  occasions!  Everyone’s  thoughts  are 


i68 


MIS  UNDERSTO  01). 


necessarily  with  the  invalid,  and  no  one  has 
lime  to  bestow  a word  on  the  poor  little 
trembling  things  standing  outside  the  sick- 
room. They  feel  they  are  useless,  and  con 
sidered  in  the  way ; and  do  not  dare  make 
inquiries  of  the  maids  who  run  in  and  out 
of  the  room  with  important  faces,  who  prob- 
ably could  not  stop  to  answer  even  if  they 
did  ; and  so  are  left  to  magnify  every  sound 
into  some  terrible  significance,  which  prob- 
ably has  no  foundation  but  in  their  own  dis- 
ordered fancies. 

There  is  terror  in  whispering  voices,  ag- 
ony in  the  sharp  ringing  of  a bell,  mystery 
even  in  the  calling  for  spoons  and  glasses, 
and  their  jingling  as  they  are  handed  in. 

All  this,  and  more,  was  experienced  b}^ 
little  Humphrey  Buncombe.  I say  more, 
because  his  fears  were  not  those  of  ordinary 
children.  The  dread  I have  been  describ- 
ing is  for  the  most  part  a nameless  dread ; 
the  children  know  not  why  they  fear,  nor 
what ; it  is  all  vague  and  undefined,  because 
they  have  no  experience  of  sorrow. 


MI&VNDSBSTOOD.  jfig 

But  remember  that  this  child  Avas  no 
stranger  to  sickness  and  death  ; that  into  his 
little  life  they  had  already  entered  ; that  the 
grim  visitor  had  swept  through  the  walls  of 
his  home,  and  left  it  very  empty.  What 
had  happened  once,  might  happen  again. 
So  he  gave  it  all  up  at  once,  “ Miles  was  dy- 
ing ! perhaps  already  dead  !” 

A child  of  Humphrey’s  disposition  suffers 
intensely  when  face  to  face  with  sorrow. 
Granted  that  the  power  of  being  easily  dis- 
tracted is  a mitigation,  it  does  not  alter  the 
feeling  for  the  time.  Life,  past  and  future, 
is  grafted  into  the  misery  of  the  present,  and 
existence  itself  is  a blank. 

He  was  so  tender-hearted,  too,  poor  little 
fellow ! so  remorseful  for  his  errors,  so  sen- 
sitive to  an  unkind  word.  Yet,  as  we  have 
seen,  with  all  this,  he  was  so  heedless, 
thoughtless,  and  volatile,  that  no  one  could 
give  him  credit  for  any  depth  of  feeling; 
and  even  his  father  (though  he  would  not 
have  had  it  otherwise,  though  he  rejoiced 
that  he  should  have  the  capability  of  turning 
IS 


MIS  VND ERST OOD. 


17c 

into  enjoyment,  both  for  himself  and  Mi  es 
every  event  of  their  lonely  child-life)  had 
marvelled  at  him,  and  had  more  than  once 
Eaid  to  himself,  “ The^boy  has  no  heart !” 

No  heart!  why,  as  we  see  him  there  in 
the  passage,  his  poor  little  heart  is  filled  to 
bursting. 

Stung  by  Virginie’s  harsh  words,  wrung 
with  fear  for  his  little  brother,  alarmed  as 
much  for  his  father’s  grief  as  his  father’s 
anger,  and  remorseful  at  the  thought  of  his 
own  broken  promise,  Humphrey  sank  down 
on  the  ground,  and  cried  as  if  his  heart 
would  break. 

In  addition  to  the  grief,  it  was  such  a 
dreadful  feeling,  that,  in  a trouble  like  this, 
no  one  cared  to  help  him ; that  h^  was  look- 
ed upon  as  the  cause  of  it  all ; that  his  hand 
seemed  against  every  man,  and  every  man’? 
hand  against  him. 

His  sorrow  must  be  greater  than  theirs, 
he  reflected.  Was  not  Miles  more  to  him 
than  to  ^ ’ 'ginie  ? And  yet  they  left  him— ■ 
sobbing  and  crying — unheeded. 


MISUNDEMSTOOD. 


\7\ 


Lying  there,  crouched  up  by  the  door 
such  an  a vlul  sense  of  loneliness  came  down 
upon  the  boy’s  soul.  In  the  hour  of  his 
trouble  he  needed  pity  so  much,  and  no  one 
gave  it  to  him. 

Then  there  arose  in  his  heart  such  a 
terrible  longing  for  his  mother ; such  a 
yearning,  that  would  not  be  quieted,  for  all 
that  he  had  had,  and  all  that  he  had  lost ; 
such  an  overwhelming  sense  of  the  void  in 
his  life,  that  he  could  not  bear  it,  and  he 
started  to  his  feet  with  a sob  which  was 
almost  a cry. 

This  feeling  must  go,  he  could  not  bear  it, 
and  he  fought  with  it  with  desperation  ; for 
it  was  an  old  enemy,  one  with  whom  he  had 
often  wrestled  in  desperate  conflict  before, 
and  upon  whose  attacks  he  always  looked 
back  with  horror.  Deep  down  in  his  heart 
it  had  its  being,  but  it  was  onlv  every 
now  and  then  that  it  rose  up  to  troubl6 
him. 

Of  late  it  had  assailed  him  much  less,  its 
attacks  had  been  weaker,  and  occurring  a> 


172 


misvndehstoo^ 


much  longer  intervals.  Why  has  it  risen 
with  such  resentless  force  now  ■ How  is  he 
to  resist  it?  How  is  he  to  fight  with  it? 
Vids  blank,  empty  feeling,  how  is  he  to 
drive  it  away  ? 

He  tried  to  think  of  his  garden,  of  his 
games,  and  of  all  the  things  which  consti- 
tuted the  joy  of  his  young  existence. 

Children  of  a larger  growth,  but  children 
in  understanding  still,  do  not  many  of  us 
wrestle  with  this  undefined  feeling  in  the 
same  way  ? This  mysterious  thing,  which 
we,  with  our  maturer  experience,  call  sor- 
row, is  not  our  first  thought  when  it  assails 
us,  ‘‘  How  shall  we  drive  it  away  ?’'  Call  it 
grief,  despair,  disappointment,  anxiety,  care 
— call  it  what  you  will,  do  we  not  try  tc 
drown  it  in  change  of  thought  of  some  kind  ? 
Does  it  not  drive  the  rich  to  society,  travel- 
ing, or  excitement,  and  the  poor  to  the  pub- 
lic-house ? 

Here  were  the  passages  where  he  had 
romped  with  Miles ; here  were  the  stairs 
down  which  he  had  jumped  that  very  morn 


MISUNDERSTOOD 


m 

ing,  and  the  balustrades  down  which  he  nad 
slid  ; why  did  they  look  so  different  ? 

God  help  him  ! the  emptiness  in  his  heart 
was  so  great,  that  it  was  repeating  itself  on 
all  around.  There  was  no  help  to  be  got 
from  the  feeling  of  his  recent  happiness  in 
the  old  house.  Never  had  it  seemed  so 
dreary ; never  had  he  realized  before  what 
an  empty  house  it  was,  occupied  only  in  one 
corner  by  a nurse  and  two  little  boys. 

There  was  no  sound,  no  life  anywhere ; 
the  twilight  was  creeping  over  the  silent 
hall  and  staircase,  and  he  knew  it  was 
deepening  in  the  uninhabited  rooms  below. 
And  then,  as  if  to  mock  him  with  the  con- 
trast, came  before  him  so  vivid  a recollec- 
tion of  life  with  his  mother  in  the  house  ; of 
her  voice  and  her  laugh  upon  that  staircase ; 
of  her  presence  in  those  rooms ; so  clear  and 
distinct  a vision  of  her  soft  eyes  and  gentle 
smile,  that  the  motherless  child  could  bear 
it  no  longer,  and  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  empti- 
ness, he  fled  away  down  the  passage,  as 


m 


MJSUJVDMBSTOOn. 


if  he  thought  to  leave  the  desolation  be. 

hind. 

But  the  emptiness  was  with  him  as  he 
went ; all  down  the  stairs  and  through  the 
hall  it  pursued  him ; it  gained  upon  him  as 
he  stood  with  his  hand  upon  the  drawing- 
room door ; it  preceded  him  into  the  dark- 
ened room,  and  was  waiting  for  him  when 
he  entered. 

The  light  that  came  in  through  the  chinks 
of  the  shutters  was  very  faint,  but  his  long- 
ing eye  sought  the  picture,  and  he  could  just 
distinguish  the  sweet  face  and  the  smiling 
babe  in  her  arms. 

He  ran  forward,  and  threw  himself  on  the 
sofa  beneath  it. 

“ Mother  !”  he  sobbed,  “ I want  you  back 
so  much  ! Every  one  is  angry  with  me,  and 
I am  so  very  miserable  !” 

Cold,  blank  silence  all  around ; mother 
and  child  smiled  on,  unconscious  of  his 
words ; even  as  he  gazed  the  light  faded 
away  from  the  picture,  and  he  was  left  alone 
ui  the  gathering  darkness ! 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


m 


In  vain  he  tried  to  fancy  himself  once 
more  the  child  in  the  picture;  in  vain  he 
tried  to  fancy  he  felt  her  arms  around  him, 
and  her  shoulder  against  his  head.  It  would 
not  do  ! In  fits  of  passion  or  disobedience 
he  had  come  here,  and  the  memory  of  his 
mother  had  soothed  him,  and  sent  him  away 
penitent ; but  in  this  dreadful  sense  of  lone- 
liness he  wa  Ated  comfort,  and  of  comfort  he 
found  none 

***** 

Yet  was  there  comfort  near,  if  he  would 
but  ask  for  it,  and  of  the  very  kind  he  want- 
ed : “ As  :>ne  whom  his  mother  comforteth, 
so  will  I comfort  you.”  He  knew  it  not ; 
he  cried  uot  for  it.  He  was  not  ignorant  of 
God’s  '.mnipresence ; in  ordinary  times  the 
boy  be  leved  with  a child’s  simple  faith  that 
God  w as  always  near  him,  but  in  the  hour 
of  his  trouble  he  was  incapable  of  deriving 
any  comfort  from  the  knowledge,  incapable 
of  aay  thought  but  his  own  sorrow. 

Children  of  a larger  growth,  but  children 
in  understanding  still,  do  not  many  of  us,  in 


1^6  MISUNDERSTOOD. 

spite  of  our  maturer  experience,  dc  likewise? 
“ There  is  no  help,”  we  say ; “ our  trouble 
is  greater  than  we  can  bear.”  We  lie  like 
the  child,  crushed  and  despairing,  and  God, 
who  at  other  times  we  feel  to  be  so  near, 
seems  hidden  from  us  altogether. 

But  thank  God  it  is  only  seems,  not  is. 
He  is  unchangeable,  and  unaffected  by  our 
changeability.  Hidden,  it  may  be,  by  the 
cloud  we  have  ourselves  raised,  the  dark 
cloud  of  hopelessness.  He  is  still  there,  the 
Same  whose  presence  we  realise  so  fully  in 
happier  moments.  “ He,”  says  a writer  of 
the  present  century,  “ is  immutable,  un- 
changeable, while  we  are  different  every 
hour.  What  He  is  in  Himself,  the  great 
unalterable  I Am,  not  what  we  in  this  or 
that  moment  feel  Him  to  be,  that  is  our 
hope.” 

The  comfort,  then,  for  us  and  for  the 
stricken  child  is,  that  though  we  may  not  at 
such  times  do  our  part.  He  is  ever  ready 
to  do  His;  and  it  would  almost  seem  as  if 
He  were  providing  for  this  state  of  feeling 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


177 


when  he  says,  “ Before  they  call,  I will 
answer.”  But  what  could  be  done  for  the 
child  in  the  terrible  hour  of  his  trouble? 
We  know  not,  but  God  knew.  The  little 
neart  was  open  before  Him,  and  He  knew 
th  at  his  sorrow  would  flee  at  morning  light, 
and  that  he  only  wanted  comfort  for  the 
present  moment.  So,  looking  pityingly 
down  upon  the  lonely  child.  He  sent  him 
the  only  thing  that  could  help  him — laid 
gently  upon  his  heavy  eyelids  the  only  gift 
that  could  do  him  any  good — giving  him 
the  peace  of  unconsciousness  till  the  hour  of 
sorrow  and  sighing  should  pass  away  ! 

There  one  of  the  maids  found  him  an  hour 
or  so  later,  and  carried  him  up  to  bed  with 
out  waking  him. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Humphrey  slept  late  the  next  raorii- 
ing,  and  the  sun  was  streaming  on 
his  face  when  he  awoke. 

He  sprang  out  of  bed  with  an  exclamation 
of  delight  at  seeing  such  a fine  day,  and  then 
started  back  in  surprise  at  finding  himsell  in 
a strange  room. 

Recollections  of  last  night  were  beginning 
to  steal  over  him,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  Jane  came  in. 

“ At  last ! Master  Humphrey.  Why  I 
thought  you  were  never  going  to  wake  up  ! 
Master  Miles  has  been  asking  for  you  for 
ever  so  long !” 

“Then  he’s  better,  is  he?”  said  Hum* 
phrey,  eagerly. 

(«78) 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


179 

“Better!”  exclaimed  Jane,  in  a. sprightly 
tone;  “ why  bless  you,  he’s  quite  well.” 

Jane  had  been  the  one  to  find  Humphrey 
in  the  drawing-room  the  night  before,  and 
had  guessed  by  his  tear-stained  face  how  it 
had  been. 

She  was  not  equivocating;  Miles  had 
taken  a turn  for  the  better  in  the  night,  and 
there  was  no  further  anxiety  about  him. 

Humphrey’s  spirits  rose  immediately  to 
their  usual  height ; he  dressed  himself  in  a 
great  hurry,  and  soon  the  two  little  brothers 
were  together  again. 

Humphrey  did  not  allude  to  his  troubles 
of  the  evening  before.  Perhaps  he  had 
already  forgotten  them  ; or  if  they  did  recur 
to  his  memory,  it  was  with  a dull,  dead 
sense  of  pain  which  he  had  no  wish  to  call 
into  life  again. 

His  was  a nature  that  was  only  too  glad 
to  escape  from  such  recollections.  His 
buoyant  spirits  and  volatile  disposition 
helped  him  to  throw  off  sad  memories,  and 
never  had  he  been  gayer  or  wilder  than  on 


£8o  misjjndebstood. 

this  morning,  as  he  laughed  and  talked,  and 
played  by  his  brother’s  bedside. 

It  was  a glorious  day,  Miles  was  nearly 
well,  his  father  was  coming  (In  obedience  to 
Virginie  s letter),  and  life  seemed  to  him  one 
flood  of  sunshine. 

Virginie,  however,  still  shaky  from  hei 
late  anxiety,  and  with  her  head  ominousl;y 
tied  up  with  flannel,  looked  grimly  on  his 
mirth.  She  did  not  understand  the  boy: 
how  should  she?  She  was  feeling  very  sore 
with  him  for  having  caused  all  this  trouble ; 
she  was,  of  course,  ignorant  of  what  he  had 
suffered,  and  she  looked  upon  his  noisy 
merriment  as  only  another  proof  of  his  usual 
heartlessness. 

Humphrey  was  not  in  the  room  when  his 
father  arrived,  having  gone  out  for  a run  in 
the  garden ; so  Virginie  had  no  check  in 
pouring  out  her  complaint. 

Sir  Everard  was  startled  at  the  effect  the 
short  illness  had  had  upon  Miles,  and  lis- 
tened more  patiently  than  usual. 

The  delicate  child  looked  so  much  like 


MISUNDMBiSTOOD  jgi 

his  mother  as  he  lay  in  bed,  with  his  flushed 
cheeks  and  lustrous  eyes,  that  the  vague 
fear  about  him,  that  almost  always  haunted 
the  father,  took  a more  definite  shape. 

Certainly  Virginie’s  account  ot  Hum- 
phrey’s disobedience  was  not  calculated  to 
soften  him  towards  the  boy,  and  he  really 
felt  more  angry  with  him  than  he  had 
ever  done  before. 

Little  Miles  was  particularly  engaging 
that  day,  so  delighted  to  see  his  father,  and 
so  caressing  in  his  ways,  that  Humphrey’s 
want  of  heart  seemed  to  stand  out  in  sharp- 
er contrast.  Sir  Everard  could  not  tear 
himself  away  from  the  little  fellow  for  some 
time,  and  the  more  coaxing  the  child  was, 
the  more  painfully  came  home  to  the  father 
the  thought  of  having  so  nearly  lost  him. 

On  descending  from  the  nursery.  Sir  Ever- 
ard went  into  the  library,  and  ringing  the 
bell,  desired  that  Master  Buncombe  should 
be  sent  to  him  immediately. 

“ I don’t  suppose  I shall  make  any  impres- 
sion upon  him,”  he  said  to  himself  while  he 

i6 


MlSUNDEBSTOOl), 


182 

waited,  ‘‘but  I must  try/'  He  never  ex 
pected  much  of  Humphrey,  but  he  waa 
hardly  prepared  for  the  boisterous  opening 
of  the  door,  and  the  gay  aspect  of  the  boy 
as  he  bounded  into  the  room. 

Sir  Everard  was,  as  we  have  seen,  always 
loth  to  scold  or  punish  either  of  his  mother 
less  children,  and  when  it  must  be  done,  he 
schooled  himself  to  do  it  from  a sense  of 
duty  But  the  bold,  and,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  defiant  way  in  which  the  boy  presented 
himself,  fairly  angered  him,  and  it  was  in  a 
tone  of  no  forced  displeasure  that  he  ex 
claimed,  “ What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  com 
ing  into  the  room  like  that?" 

Now  Humphrey  had  been  busy  working 
in  his  garden  when  his  father's  message  had 
reached  him,  in  happy  forgetfulness  of  his 
recent  conduct  and  his  brother's  recent 
danger. 

In  the  excitement  of  hearing  of  his  father's 
arrival,  he  had  overlooked  the  probability 
of  his  displeasure ; and  it  was  with  unfeign* 
ed  astonishment  that  he  heard  himself  thiw 


MISUNDERSTOOD.  xgj 

greeted.  His  wondering  expression  only 
irritated  his  father  the  more 
“ Don’t  stand  there,  looking  as  if  you 
thought  you  had  done  nothing  wrong,”  he 
exclaimed  testily;  “do  you  think  you  are 
to  lead  your  poor  little  brother  into  danger, 
and  make  him  ill,  and  then  not  to  be  found 
fault  with  ? Don’t  you  know  that  you  have 
disobeyed  me,  and  broken  your  promise? 
Did  I not  forbid  you  to  go  near  that  pond  ? 
I tell  you  I won’t  have  it,  and  you  shall  go 
to  school  if  you  can’t  behave  better  at  home. 
Do  you  hear  me,  sir?  what  do  you  mean  by 
behaving  in  this  way  ?” 

Humphrey  understood  now.  His  lips 
quivered,  and  his  cheek  flushed  at  hearing 
himself  so  sternly  spoken  to,  and  he  dared 
not  attempt  to  answer,  lest  he  should  dis- 
grace himself  by  tears. 

Sir  Everard’s  anger  soon  evaporated. 

“ You  see,  Humphrey,”  he  went  on  more 
gently,  “ it  is  always  the  same  thing.  Day 
after  day  and  week  after  week  I havn  the 
same  complaints  of  you.  I should  have 


184 


MISUA  DERSTOOD. 


thought  you  were  old  enough  now  to  re- 
raember  that  Miles  is  very  delicate;  and  that 
you  would  have  taken  care  of  him,  instead 
of  leading  him  into  mischief.  Do  you  know,” 
he  concluded,  suddenly  dropping  his  voice, 
“ that  we  have  very  nearly  lost  your  little 
brother  ?” 

To  Sir  Everard’s  surprise,  Humphrey 
burst  into  a passion  of  tears.  The  words 
brought  back  to  him  the  suffering  of  last 
night  with  a sharp  pang,  and  his  whole 
frame  shook  with  sobs. 

Sir  Everard  was  instantly  melted.  Like 
most  men,  the  sight  of  tears  had  a magical 
effect  upon  him ; and  he  took  the  child  on 
his  knee,  and  tried  to  comfort  him. 

“ There,  there,”  he  said  soothingly,  as  he 
stroked  the  curly  head,  “that  will  do;  I 
must  not  expect  old  heads  on  young  shouh 
ders ; but  you  must  try  and  remember  what 
I tell  you,  and  not  disobey  me  any  more. 
And  now  give  me  a kiss,  and  run  out,  and 
have  a game  of  cricket.’ 

Humphrey  lifted  up  his  tear-stained  face 


MIS,  und:erstooi>.  igj 

and  gladly  received  the  kiss  of  forgive- 
ness 

A few  minutes  after  he  was  playing  single 
wicket  in  the  field  with  the  footman,  with- 
out a t\*ace  of  sorrow  on  his  countenance  or 
a sad  thought  in  his  heart. 

But  Sir  Everard  remained  in  the  library, 
perturbed  and  uneasy.  Miles’s  fragile  ap- 
pearance had  made  him  nervous,  and  he 
was  thinking  how  easily  any  little  chill 
might  bring  on  inflammation  again.  He 
was  well  versed  in  all  the  sudden  relapses 
and  as  sudden  improvements  of  delicate 
lungs.  Had  he  not  watched  them  hour  by 
hour?  Did  he  not  know  every  step?  It 
was  an  attack  like  this  that  had  preceded 
his  wife’s  slow  fading.  Daily  had  he  watch- 
ed the  flush  deepen  and  the  features  sharpen 
on  a face  which  was  so  like  the  little  face 
ip-stairs,  that,  as  he  thought  of  them  both, 
ne  could  hardly  separate  the  two. 

Something  must  be  done  to  prevent  the 
recurrence  of  any  risks  for  Miles.  But 
what?  It  was  clear  that  Humphrey  was 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


1 86 

not  to  be  trusted ; and  yet  Sir  Everard  could 
not  bear  to  spoil  the  children’s  fun  by  sep- 
arating them,  or  by  letting  Virginie  mount 
in  too  strict  guard  over  them.  She  was  a 
nervous  woman,  and  too  apt  to  think  every- 
thing they  did  had  danger  in  it.* 

Boys  must  amuse  themselves,”  he  re- 
flected ; “ and  at  Humphrey’s  age  it  is  nat- 
ural they  should  do  extraordinary  things. 
I don’t  want  to  make  him  a muff.”  Invol- 
untarily he  smiled  at  the  idea  of  Hum- 
phrey being  a muff.  How  easily  Miles 
might  have  fallen  into  that  horrid  pond ! 
The  slightest  push  from  Humphrey,  who 
never  looks  where  he  is  going,  would  have 
sent  him  in.  Would  he  ever  have  recov- 
ered the  effects  of  a wholesale  soaking? 
However,”  he  concluded,  half  out  loud,  as 
he  rose  to  return  to  the  nursery,  the  ses- 
sion is  nearly  over,  and  I shall  be  down 
here,  and  able  to  look  after  them  myself. 
And  meanwhile  I shall  remain  on  for  a day 
or  two,  till  Miles  is  quite  well  again.” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

IT  was  a pleasant  little  holiday  that  Sit 
- Everard  spent  with  his  children  during 
the  days  that  followed;  and  often  in  after 
years  did  he  look  back  upon  it  with  a ten- 
der regret. 

Miles’s  health  improved  steadily,  and  in  a 
little  while  he  was  allowed  to  be  carried  in 
the  afternoon  to  his  father’s  dressing-room 
where,  nestled  in  a huge  arm-chair,  with  his 
father  and  Humphrey  sitting  by,  he  passed 
some  very  happy  hours.  Sometimes  they 
played  games,  or  else  Sir  Everard  would 
read  out  loud  from  a book  of  fairy  tales 
he  had  brought  from  London.  One  evening 
he  read  a story  which  greatly  delighted  both 
little  boys.  It  was  about  a wonderfu  mir- 
ror, which  had  the  power  of  showing  to  its 

(187) 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


1 88 

owner  what  any  of  his  absent  friends  might 
be  doing  at  the  moment  he  was  looking 
into  it. 

Oh,  how  I wish  I could  have  such  a mir- 
ror!’' said  Humphrey,  very  earnestly. 

How  I wish  I could !”  echoed  Miles. 

Do  you  ?”  said  Sir  Everard  ; I wonder 
why.” 

Humphrey  did  not  answer ; he  was  gazing 
out  of  the  window  in  deep  thought. 

Who  would  you  look  for,  my  little 
man?”  asked  Sir  Everard  of  Miles. 

I should  look  for  you,  dear  Fardie.” 

‘‘  But  I am  here,  darling.” 

Not  always,”  said  Miles,  laying  his  little 
hand  caressingly  on  Sir  Everard’s.  When 
you  are  away  in  London,  I should  like  to 
look  in  and  see  what  you  are  doing.” 

It  was  by  these  engaging  little  words  and 
ways,  that  Miles  had  wound  himself  so 
closely  round  his  father’s  heart. 

So  you  would  like  to  see  me  when  I am 
away,”  he  said,  stroking  the  child’s  hand 
‘do  you  miss  me  when  I’m  not  with  you? 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


189 

“ So  much,  Fardie ; I wish  you  would 
never  go.  Humphie,  don’t  we  miss  Fardie 
dreadfully  when  he’s  away,  and  wish  he 
would  never  go?” 

Sir  Everard  glanced  at  his  elder  boy,  as 
if  hoping  to  hear  him  confirm  his  little 
brother’s  words,  but  Humphrey  was  still 
looking  thoughtfully  up,  out  of  the  window, 
and  took  no  notice. 

“ What  is  he  thinking  about  ?”  whispered 
Sir  Ev'erard  to  Miles. 

“ I don’t  know,”  said  Miles,  softly ; “ per 
haps  he’s  wishing  very  hard  for  a mirror.” 

Whatever  the  boy  was  wishing  for,  ii 
must  have  been  something  which  he  felt  he 
could  never  have,  for  the  brown  eyes  were 
full  of  tears  as  they  gazed  up  into  the  blue 
sky. 

“ Wait  a minute,”  breathed  Miles,  “ he’ll 
say  how  we  miss  you,  when  he’s  done  think- 
ing; often,  when  he’s  thinking,  he  doesn’t 
answer  me  till  he’s  quite  done  what  ne’s 
thinking  about.” 

With  the  tears  still  standing  in  them,  the 


190 


MI8UNDMBST00D. 


eyes  suddenly  sparkled  with  a new  feeling, 
and  Humphrey  sprang  to  the  window,  ex- 
claiming,— 

“A  hawk!  I do  declare;  and  he’ll  have 
the  sparrow  in  a minute !” 

Sir  Everard  looked  disappointed,  and 
drew  Miles  closer  to  him. 

“ He’s  not  thinking  about  us,  is  he,  dar 
ling  ?” 

“ Eh !”  exclaimed  Humphrey,  starting, 
“ were  you  speaking  to  me  ? What  did  you 
say.  Miles?” 

“ It  was  about  the  glass,  Humphie ; I said 
we  should  like  so  much  to  see  what  Fardie 
is  doing  in  London  sometimes.” 

“ Oh,  wouldn’t  it  be  fun  1”  said  Humphrey, 
seating  himself  by  his  brother ; “ sometimes 
we  should  see  him  in  his  club,  and  sometimes 
in  a Hansom  cab,  and  sometimes  we  should 
see  you  making  a speech  in  the  House  of 
Parliament,  shouldn’t  we,  father,  with  your 
arm  out,  and  a great  sheet  all  round  you, 
like  the  statue  of  Mr.  Pitt  down  stairs?” 

Sir  Everard  laughed. 


MISUNDEBSTO  OB. 


I9I 

“ Not  very  often,”  I think. 

“ How  should  we  see  you,  Fardie?” 

“ I’m  afraid,  if  you  looked  late  in  the  even- 
hig,  you  would  often  see  me  so,”  he  answer- 
ed, folding  his  arms,  and  shutting  his  eyes. 

“ What,  asleep !”  exclaimed  the  children. 

“ Fast  asleep,”  returned  their  father. 

“ Isn’t  the  Queen  very  angry  with  you  ?’ 
inquired  Miles. 

“ The  Queen  is  generally  asleep  herself  at 
such  hours.” 

“ What!  in  the  House  of  Parliament?” 

“ No  ; but  in  one  or  other  of  her  palaces.” 

“ But  she  isn’t  always  asleep  at  night,” 
said  Humphrey,  in  a superior  tone ; “ some- 
times she  sits  up  very  late,  and  has  a ball. 
I know  a picture  of  her  giving  a ball,  in  the 
old  book  of  prints  down-stairs.” 

The  volume  in  question  bore  the  date  of 
1710,  and  the  engraving  represented  the 
court  of  Queen  Anne,  but  it  was  all  the 
same  to  Humphrey. 

“ Do  you  ever  go  to  the  Queen’s  ball 
Fardie  inquired  Miles. 


192 


MISUNDEBSTOOD. 


“Yes,  dear,  I have  been,  but  not  fcr  a 
long  time.” 

“ Father’s  too  old  for  balls  now,”  observed 
Humphrey.  “Ain’t  you,  father?” 

“ My  dancing  days  are  over,  yes,”  said  Sir 
Everard,  absently.  He  was  thinking  how 
lovely  his  wife  had  looked  at  the  last  court 
ball  he  had  been  to. 

“ Do  they  dance  ‘ Up  the  middle  and 
down  again,’  Fardie  ?” 

“ No,”  answered  Sir  Everard,  smiling, 
“ quadrilles  and  valses  mostly.” 

“ I suppose  when  you  were  young  and 
went  to  balls,  they  used  to  dance  the 
minuet  ?”  said  Humphrey.  “ Used  you  to 
wear  a pig-tail,  father  ?” 

“ Upon  my  word !”  said  Sir  Everard, 
“ why,  how  old  do  you  think  I am  ?” 

The  children  had  no  idea,  and  amused 
themselves  for  the  next  ten  minutes  by  try 
ing  to  guess,  their  conjectures  varying  be- 
tween sixty  and  ninety. 

“ Will  you  come  for  a run,  father  ?”  said 
Humphrey,  presently. 


Min  UNVJUMSTOOD. 


193 


“ It’s  a little  hot  for  running,  isn  t it  ?”  an- 
swered Sir  Everard  ; “ but  if  you  are  tired 
of  being  indoors,  you  can  go  in  the  garden, 
and  I will  join  you  in  about  an  hour.” 

“We  might  go  to  the  village,  mightn’t  we, 
and  spend  my  pennies  ? Dyson’s  got  his 
trumpet,  so  there’s  nothing  to  save  for,  and 
I should  like  to  spend  them.” 

“ V ery  well : where  shall  I find  you  ?” 

“ I shall  be  feeding  my  jackdaw,  or  work- 
ing in  my  garden  ; or,  perhaps,”  after  a mo- 
ment’s reflection,  “ I might  be  sitting  at  the 
top  of  the  apple  tree,  or  running  along  the 
kitchen  garden  wall.  But  if  you  don’t  find 
me  in  any  of  those  places,  look  in  the  hen- 
house. I might  be  getting  an  egg  there  for 
Miles’  tea.” 

“ But  isn’t  the  hen-house  kept  locked  ?” 

“ Oh,  yes,  but  that  doesn’t  matter  a bit.  I 
always  squeeze  myself  through  the  hen’s 
little  trap  door.” 

“ You  don’t  expect  me  to  do  the  same,  I 
hope  ?” 

Humphrej'’s  sense  of  the  ridiculous  was 

17 


194 


MIS  INDBBSTOOD. 


tickled  by  the  idea  of  his  father’s  tali  fona 
struggling  through  the  little  hole  of  a few 
inches  wide ; and  his  merry  laugh  echoed 
through  the  room. 

“ What  fun  it  would  be !”  he  exclaimed, 
“ you’d  stick  in  the  middle,  and  not  be  able 
to  get  in  or  out.  How  you  would  kick !” 

Little  Miles  laughed  till  he  coughed,  and 
Sir  Everard  was  obliged  to  dismiss  Humph- 
rey to  the  garden. 

Humphrey  was  not  engaged  in  any  of 
the  employments  he  had  mentioned  when 
his  father  joined  him  an  hour  later.  He 
was  standing  gazing  thoughtfully  at  the 
lame  jackdaw  hopping  about  on  his  wooden 
leg. 

“ What  a funny  boy  you  are,”  said  his 
father,  laying  a hand  on  his  shoulder.  “ I do 
believe  you  care  more  for  that  ugly  old  jack- 
daw than  for  anything  else  that  you  have. 
He  always  seems  to  me  the  most  uninterest 
ing  of  creatures  and  I’m  sure  he  is  very  un- 
grateful, foi’  the  kinder  you  are  to  him  the 
crosser  he  gets.” 


MIS  UMMMSSfO  OJ}. 


Yes,  he’s  very  cross,  poor  old  fellow  1’ 
said  Humphrey,  “ Look!”  holding  out  his 
hand,  which  bore  unmistakable  evidence  of 
a bird’s  beak,  “ how  he’s  pecked  me.  He 
always  does  whenever  I feed  him.” 

“ I should  almost  be  inclined  not  to  feea 
him  then.” 

” I coiddn’t  let  him  starve,  you  know 
Besides,  1 don’t  wonder  he’s  cross.  It’s 
enough  to  make  any  one  angry  to  be  always 
hopping  about  in  one  little  place,  instead  ol 
having  the  whole  world  to  fly  about  in. 
And  if  it  wasn’t  for  me,”  he  added,  half  to 
himself,  “ he  would  be  flying  about  now.” 

Sir  Everard  did  not  catch  the  last  words, 
but  the  boy’s  face  reminded  him  that  he  had 
touched  on  a painful  subject,  and  he  has- 
tened to  change  it  by  proposing  they  should 
start  for  the  village. 

Humphrey  brightened  up  directly,  and 
was  soon  talking  as  gaily  as  usual.  The 
painfulness  of  the  subject  consisted  in  this. 

One  day,  Humphrey  and  Miles  were 
amusing  themselves  in  their  gardens,  when 


MlSlTNDMBSiOOD. 


196 

the  jackdaw,  then  young  and  active,  cams 
flying  past. 

Hui-iphrey  without  the  slightest  idea  of 
touching  it,  flung  a stone  at  it,  exclaiming, 
“ Get  away,  old  fellow !” 

But  so  unerring  was  his  aim,  that  the 
stone  struck  the  bird  on  the  wing,  and 
brought  it  struggling  and  fluttering  to  the 
ground. 

Dolly,  the  laundry-maid,  was  close  at  hand, 
and  she  never  forgot  Humphrey’s  burst  of 
grief  and  remorse,  when,  on  picking  up  the 
jackdaw,  they  found  both  leg  and  wing 
broken.  That  a living  creature  should  be 
deprived  of  its  powers  by  his  means  was 
more  than  the  tender-hearted  child  could 
bear,  and  for  a long  while  he  was  inconsol- 
able. 

In  due  time  the  bird  had  been  supplied 
with  a wooden  leg  through  Dolly,  by  whom 
it  had  ever  since  been  carefully  tended,  but 
its  life,  in  Humphre}'’s  eyes,  was  over;  and 
he  never  passed  the  cage  without  a pang. 
He  seldom  spoke  of  it,  it  was  too  sore  a 


MIS  HKD  ERST  OOD. 


19; 


ti  ibject ; but  his  attention  to  the  lame  bird 
had  from  that  day  to  this  never  relaxed  fo' 
an  instant. 

On  the  way  to  tne  village,  Sir  Everard 
questioned  him  on  his  progress  with  his 
lessons. 

Humphrey  always  gave  a capital  account 
of  himself;  reading,  writing,  French,  every- 
thing, according  to  him,  was  going  on  as 
swimmingly  as  possible. 

Sir  Everard’s  faith  in  these  reports  had 
been  rather  shaken  since  the  memorable  oc- 
casion when,  relying  on  Humphrey’s  confi- 
dent assertion,  that  he  now  knew  the  auxi- 
liary verbs  perfectly,  he  had,  with  a father’s 
p’^de,  called  upon  him  suddenly  to  repeat 
the  verb  “ avoir  ” to  his  grandmother.  She 
was  a lady  of  the  old  school,  and  a great 
stickler  for  early  education : and  he  had 
been  rather  nettled  by  an  observation  that 
had  dropped  from  her,  to  the  effect  that 
Humphrey  was  rather  backward. 

“ Indeed,  mother,”  he  had  answered,  “ 1 
think  few  boys  of  his  age  know  so  much  of 
17* 


MISUJsDERSTOOI). 


198 

French,  fie  speaks  it  perfectly,  and  is  well 
grounded  in  the  grammar.’’ 

To  prove  which,  Hvmphre}^  had  been 
called  out  of  the  garden,  and,  to  his  father’s 
dismay,  had  conjugated  the  first  tense  of  the 
/erb  in  the  following  manner : — 

J’ai 
Tu  as 
II  a 

Nous  sommes 
Vous  etes 
Us  sont. 

Conversation  did  not  flag  for  a moment  as 
they  walked  along. 

On  the  subject  of  history,  Humphrey  not 
only  professed  to  be,  but  was,  well  informed. 
It  gave  food  to  his  imagination,  and  he  de- 
lighted in  it.  Sir  Everard  felt  quite  brushed 
up  in  the  early  parts  of  history  before  they 
reached  the  village,  and  Humphrey  himseli 
was  so  taken  up  with  his  subject,  that  he 
readily  agreed  to  give  up  his  expedition  to 
the  shop,  so  that  they  might  extend  their 
wa  k by  returning  home  another  way. 


MIS  UNDE  MS  TOOD. 


199 


“ Wa  shall  pass  little  lame  Tom,  anyhow,' 
K > said,  “ and  I can  give  my  pennies  to  him 
instead.” 

Lame  Tom  was  a little  cripple,  who  sat 
all  day  long  in  a little  wooden  chair,  and 
was  an  object  of  great  commiseration  to 
Bumphrey.  A creature  who  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  v/alk,  run,  or  climb, 
and  had  to  sit  still  in  a chair  from  year’s  end 
to  year’s  end ! How  keenly  such  a con- 
dition appealed  to  the  pity  of  such  a nature 
as  Humphrey’s ! 

He  gave  him  his  pennies  as  he  passed, 
and  then  resumed  his  conversation  with  his 
%ther. 

It  was  nearly  dinner-time  when  they 
reached  home,  and  Miles  was  eagerly  wait- 
ing for  his  game  of  “ Spelicans  ” with  Sir 
Everard.  He  was,  however,  never  quite 
happy  unless  Humphrey  was  included  in  his 
amusements,  if  he  happened  to  be  present : 
so  after  a time  “ Spelicans  ” was  changed  to 

Old  Maid,”  a game  of  which  both  boys 
were  particularly  fond. 


200 


MlSVNDEMaTOOD, 


No  *‘lady  of  a certain  age”  could  have 
shown  more  eagerness  to  get  rid  of  the  fatal 
Queen  than  did  the  two  little  brothers,  and 
they  played  as  if  their  whole  future  de- 
pended upon  it. 

Great  was  their  delight  and  exultation 
when,  at  the  end  of  the  game,  they  found 
they  had  both  escaped  the  fate  of  single 
blessedness;  and,  with  great  clapping  of 
hands  and  other  demonstrations  of  triumph, 
Sir  Everard  was  informed  that  he  “ would 
be  an  old  maid.” 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IT  was  a lovely  day,  real  harvest  weather, 
when  Sir  Everard  Duncombe  and  his 
two  little  boys  took  their  way  to  the  corn- 
field to  see  the  new  machine  at  work. 

Sir  Everard  was  going  up  to  town  that 
evening,  but  it  was  for  the  last  time ; and 
then,  to  the  children’s  delight,  he  had  pro- 
mised to  come  down  for  good,  and  had 
settled  that  the  Harvest  Home  should  take 
place  early  in  the  ensuing  week. 

The  corn-field  presented  a gay  appear- 
ance when  they  reached  it.  The  new  ma- 
chine, drawn  by  two  fine  horses,  and  driven 
by  the  bailiff,  was  careering  along  the  com, 
with  the  reapers  all  running  by  the  side. 
Down  fell  the  golden  grain  on  all  sides,  and 
eager  hands  collected  and  bound  it  up. 

(»0l) 


202 


MIS  UNDESSTOOD. 


With  a shout  of  joy,  Humphrey  was 
among  them,  hindering  every  one  and  alarm- 
ing his  father  by  continually  getting  in  the 
way  of  the  machine  and  the  horses. 

Of  course  he  was  not  long  content  with 
so  subordinate  a part  in  the  proceedings; 
and  came  to  beg  his  father  to  let  him  mount 
up  on  the  little  seat  by  the  bailiff’s  side. 

Sir  Everard  assisted  him  up,  and  the 
machine  went  off  again,  followed  by  the 
reapers. 

By  and  by.  Sir  Everard  looked  at  his 
watch,  and  found  it  was  time  to  be  making 
his  way  to  the  station.  The  children  were 
so  happy,  he  had  not  the  heart  to  take  them 
away. 

“ They  are  quite  safe,”  he  reflected,  “ with 
so  many  people  about ; and  I will  send  Vir- 
ginie  to  them,  as  I pass  the  house.” 

Humphrey  was  out  of  sight,  so  Sir  Ever- 
ard told  Miles  (who  was  playing  with  the 
“little  girl  at  the  lodge”)  to  look  out  for 
Virgin! e,  and  to  say  “good-bye”  for  him  to 
Humphrey. 


MIS  USD  JEU  STOOD. 


203 


Little  Mi  es  held  up  his  face  to  be  kissed 
•>  ft  thin  face  it  was  still — and  said  : “ You’ll 
ct  rae  back  soon,  Fardie,  and  not  go  away 
any  more?” 

“Very  soon,  my  darling;  and  then  not 
leave  you  again  till  next  year ! W e’ll  have 
great  fun,  and  you  must  be  a good  little 
man,  and  not  get  ill  any  more.” 

“ I promise,  Fardie.” 

Sir  Everard  smiled  rather  sadly,  kissed 
the  child  over  and  over  again,  and  then 
walked  away. 

When  he  got  to  the  gate,  he  turned  round 
to  have  one  more  look  at  the  gay  scene. 
Miles  was  still  standing  where  he  had  left 
him,  gazing  after  his  father,  and  kissing  his 
hand.  His  was  the  prominent  figure  in  the 
foreground,  surrcRinded  by  the  golden  corn. 
Away  behind  him  stretched  the  lovely  land- 
scape, and  in  the  background  was  the  ma- 
chine returning  to  its  starting  point  followed 
by  the  reapeis.  Humphrey,  sitting  by  the 
bailiff,  had  now  got  the  reins  in  his  own  hands, 
ftnd  was  cheering  on  the  horses  as  he  came 


204 


MIST7NDEBSX00D. 


So  Sir  Everard  left  them. 

Excitement  cannot  last  for  ever,  and  aftet 
a time,  Humphrey  got  tired  of  driving,  and 
got  down  to  play  with  his  little  brother 
They  followed  the  machine  once  or  twdce, 
picking  up  the  corn,  but  it  was  hot  work, 
and  they  went  to  rest  under  the  hedge. 

“ It  is  very  hot,  even  here,”  said  Hum 
phrey,  taking  off  his  hat,  and  fanning  him- 
self. “ I think  we’ll  go  and  sit  under  the 
tree  in  the  next  field,  where  we  sat  the  Sun- 
da}^  Uncle  Charlie  was  here.  Come  along.” 

They  climbed  over  the  gate,  and  made  for 
the  tree,  where  they  sat  down  on  the 
grass. 

“ How  jolly  Uncle  Charlie’s  stories  were,*’ 
sighed  Humphrey ; “ how  I wish  we  could 
hear  them  all  over  again.  It’s  a great  pity 
father  ever  told  me  not  to  climb  the  bough 
that  sticks  out.  It  would  have  been  the 
very  thing  to  crawl  along,  like  the  man  in 
that  story.  Father  says  its  rotten  and  /.n- 
safe.  I think  he  must  make  a mistake-  it 
►ooks  as  strong  as  possible !” 


MISUNDSnSTOOD. 


205 

He  sighed  again,  and  there  was  a long 
pause. 

Presently  he  resumed.  “ I don’t  see  why 
we  shouldn’t  go  and  look.  It  would  be  so 
cool  by  the  pond.” 

“Oh!  YLnm^hxQ,  please  don't.  We  shall 
lose  our  way,  and  Virginie  will  be  so  angry.” 

“ But  I know  the  way  quite  well  from 
here.  Miles.  It  was  only  because  we  started 
from  Dyson’s  cottage  that  I lost  it  before.” 

“ But,  Humphie,  if  we  get  wet  again ! I 
promised  fardie  not  to  get  ill.” 

“ The  rain  made  you  wet.  Miles,  not  the 
pond;  and  it’s  not  going  to  rain  to-day. 
Look  what  a blue  sky  I” 

The  two  little  brothers  gazed  upwards. 
It  was  clear  overhead,  but  there  was  a sus- 
picious bank  of  clouds  in  the  distance. 

“ Those  clouds  won’t  come  down  tili 
night,”  Humphrey  observed.  “ Come  along. 
It’s  not  very  far.” 

“ Better  not,  Humphie.” 

“ I’m  only  going  to  look.  Miles.  Wh?if 
aie  you  afraid  of?” 

18 


r 


2o6  MISUKDE£ST00D. 

“Don’t  know,  Humphie,”  answered  thfl 
little  fellow,  with  a tiny  shake  in  his  voice; 
‘ but  please  don’t  let  us  go !” 

“ Well,  you  needn't  come  if  you  don’t  like, 
ril  go  alone — I shan’t  be  long.” 

But  Miles  didn’t  like  being  left  in  the  field 
by  himself ; so  with  a little  sigh,  he  got  up, 
and  put  his  hand  in  his  brother’s. 

“ I’ll  come,”  he  said,  resignedly. 

“ That’s  right,”  said  Humphrey ; “ there’s 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of — is  there  ?” 

“ No,”  said  the  child ; but  his  face  was 
troubled,  and  his  voice  still  shook  a little. 

So  over  the  grass  the  two  little  brothers 
went,  hand  in  hand,  till  in  an  adjoining  field 
they  saw  the  waters  of  the  p')nd  gleaming 
like  silver  in  the  summer  sunshine.  Side  by 
side  they  stood  on  its  brink. 

“We’re  only  going  to  look,  jou  .'cnow,” 
said  Humphrey. 

They  were  the  first  words  he  had  spoken 
for  some  time,  and  they  came  so  suddenly 
that  Miles  started  as  they  fell  on  the  still 
air.  They  seo.med  to  arouse  the  iniabitants 


MIS  UN  DEBS  TOOD. 


20J 


01  ihat  secluded  spot,  for  a bird  flew  out  of 
the  tree,  and  soared  away  with  a scared 
chirrup,  which  fell  with  a melancholy  sound 
on  the  children’s  ears;  and  a water-rat 
bounded  from  under  a lily-leaf,  and  plunged 
with  a dull  splash  into  another  part  of  the 
pond. 

Innumerable  insects  skimmed  across  the 
surface  of  the  water,  and  one  or  two  bees 
droned  idly,  as  they  flew  from  one  water 
lily  to  another. 

The  branch  of  the  tree  that  stretched  over 
the  pond  dipped  its  topmost  leaves  into  the 
water  with  a sleepy  sound;  as  the  breeze 
swayed  it  gently  backwards  and  foi  wards, 
the  water-lilies  danced  lightly  with  the 
movement  of  the  water ; and  there  was  over 
the  whole  place  a sense  of  repose  and  an 
isolatkii  which  infected  the  children  with  its 
dreaminess,  keeping  even  Humphrey  silent, 
and  making  little  Miles  feel  sad. 

“ Let’s  go,  Humphic.” 

“Not  yet,”  answered  Humphrey,  recov 
Bring  from  his  fit  of  abstraction,  and  moving 


208 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


towards  the  tree:  “I  want  to  look  at  the 
branch.  Why,  it’s  not  rotten  a bit !”  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  examined  it.  “ I do  believe 
it  would  hold  us  quite  well !” 

He  clasped  his  arms  round  the  trunk  of 
tne  tree,  and  propelled  himself  upwards, 
where  he  was  soon  lost  to  view  in  the  thick 
foliage. 

Miles  gave  a little  sigh;  he  could  not 
shake  off  the  melancholy  that  oppressed 
him,  and  he  was  longing  to  get  away  from 
the  place. 

Presently  Humphrey’s  ringing  laugh  was 
heard,  and  Miles,  looking  up.  saw  him 
crawling  along  the  branch  which  stretched 
out  over  the  water.  His  face  was  flushed, 
and  his  eyes  sparkling  with  excitement,  and 
he  was  utterly  regardless  of  the  shivering 
and  shaking  of  the  branch  under  his  weight. 
When  he  had  got  out  a certain  distance  he 
returned,  and  throwing  his  arms  once  more 
round  the  upper  part  of  the  trunk,  he  raised 
himself  to  his  feet  and  stood  upright,  trium 
phant. 


MISUNDMSSTOOJ}. 


209 

“There!”  he  exclaimed — “I’ve  done  it. 
Who  says  it’s  dangerous  now  ? It’s  as  safe 
as  safe  can  be.  Come  up^  Miles.  \ ou  can’t 
think  how  jolly  it  is !” 

Miles  drew  a long  breath.  “ Must  I really 
really  come  ?” 

“ Why  not  ? you  see  how  easily  I did  it. 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  I’ll  help  you  up.” 

Bright  and  beautiful  was  the  aspect  of  the 
elder  boy,  as  he  stood  above,  with  his  grace- 
ful figure  clearly  defined  against  the  green 
foliage,  one  arm  thrown  carelessly  round  a 
bough,  and  the  other  outstretched  to  his 
little  brother;  and  very  lovely  the  expres- 
sion of  wistful  uncertainty  on  the  face  of  the 
younger  one,  as  he  stood  below,  with  his 
eyes  upraised  so  timidly  to  his  brother’s 
face,  and  his  hands  nervously  clasped  to- 
gether. 

Involuntarily  he  shrank  back  a little,  and 
there  was  a pause. 

He  looked  all  around  the  secluded  spot, 
as  if  to  find  help,  as  if  to  discover  a looo* 
nole  whereby  he  might  escape,  even  at  the 


210 


MIS  UNB  EBSTO  0J>. 


eleventh  hour.  But  the  insects  skimming 
from  side  to  side  of  the  pond,  the  water- 
yilies  dancing  gently  on  the  surface,  vrere 
still  the  only  animate  things  to  be  seen,  and 
no  sound  was  to  be  heard  save  the  dipping 
of  the  branch  into  the  water,  and  the  splash 
of  the  active  water-rat.  They  were  power- 
less to  help  him,  and  he  resigned  himself  to 
Humphrey’s  will. 

I know  I shall  be  kilt^  but  Fll  come,”  he 
said ; and  he  held  out  his  shaking  little 
hand. 

Humphrey  grasped  it  tightly,  and  got 
him  up  by  degrees  to  the  same  level  as  him- 
self. Then  carefully  he  dropped  down  on 
his  hands  and  knees  and  helped  Miles  to  do 
the  same, 

Slowly  they  both  began  to  move,  and 
gradually  they  crawled  along  the  branch 
that  stretched  over  the  water ! Clinging 
tightly  with  arms  and  legs,  and  listening  to 
Humphrey’s  encouraging  voice^  little  Miles 
settled  himself  on  the  branch  in  fancied 
security. 


MISVSDERSTOOD. 


211 


Humphrey  got  close  up  to  him  behind, 
and  put  his  arms  round  him.  “ Hurrah !’ 
he  shouted ; “ here  we  both  are !” 

They  had  been  so  engrossed  that  they 
had  not  noticed  how  the  weather  had  cloud 
ed  over.  The  bank  of  clouds  they  had  no. 
ticed  was  nearly  over  their  heads,  the  air 
was  becoming  thick  and  oppressive,  far  in 
the  distance  was  heard  the  growl  of  ap. 
proaching  thunder,  and  some  big  drops  of 
rain  fell. 

Humphrey  remembered,  with  a start,  his 
father’s  injunctions  about  Miles,  and  the  ill 
effects  of  their  last  adventure.  “We  must 
go  home,”  he  exclaimed ; and,  forgetting 
their  perilous  position,  he  moved  so  sud. 
denly,  that  he  nearly  sent  his  little  brother 
off  the  branch.  Instinctively  he  reached 
out  his  hand  to  save  him,  and  Miles  nearly 
overbalanced  himself  in  his  attempt  to  din; 
to  it. 

Their  combined  movements  were  b • 
much  for  the  decaying  wood,  already  ro»  k 
ng  beneath  their  weight.  It  swayed — v 


212 


MIS  UN D MSS  TO  OJt. 


shivered — it  creaked  ....  and  then  w)  4 a 
crash  it  broke  from  its  parent  bark!-  and 
boys  and  branch  were  precipitated  int<  the 
water  below. 


PART  11. 


ikr' 


PART  IL 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

■ IR  EVERARD  BUNCOMBE  pursued 


k_^  his  way  to  the  stables  on  leaving  the 
harvest  field ; and  as  he  passed  the  house, 
he  called  out  to  Virginie,  who  was  sitting 
at  work  at  the  nursery  window,  to  go  and 
join  the  children. 

On  arriving  in  London,  he  went  to  his 
club  for  his  letters,  and,  meeting  a friend  on 
the  steps,  they  walked  down  Piccadilly  to- 
gether, and  turned  into  the  park  at  Hyde 
Park  Corner. 

They  stood  by  the  railings  for  a Hltle 
while,  watching  the  stream  of  carriages 
and  their  gaily  dressed  occupants ; but  it 


<»»5) 


2i6 


MIS  UNDEMSTO  OD. 


was  very  hot,  and  after  a time  Sir  Everard 
took  leave  of  his  friend,  and  strolled  towards 
the  Serpentine,  in  search  of  a little  air. 

Miles’s  delicacy,  ever  the  subject  rising 
uppermost  in  his  mind,  occupied  his  thoughts 
as  he  walked  along.  He  wondered  to  him- 
self whether  he  would  outgrow  it,  whether 
a winter  abroad  would  set  him  up,  and 
whether  it  would  not  be  wise  to  bring  hin, 
to  London,  and  show  him  to  one  of  the  great 
chest  doctors. 

The  sight  of  the  water^  as  he  approached 
the  Serpentine,  recalled  to  his  mind  the 
pond  at  Wareham,  and  the  expedition  which 
had  been  the  cause  of  the  mischief.  He  re- 
membered, with  a start,  how  near  he  had 
left  the  children  to  the  tempting  spot,  for 
the  pond  was  almost  within  sight  of  the  field 
where  they  were  reaping. 

For  a moment  he  debated  whether  he  had 
been  wise  to  trust  Humphrey  again;  but 
then  he  reflected  how  soon  Virginie  must 
have  joined  them,  and  how  many  people 
there  were  about. 


MISUNDERSTOOD, 


2iy 


Besides,  they  were  quite  taken  up  with 
the  reaping,  and  when  he  remembered  his 
own  severe  words  to  Humphrey,  and  the 
Doy  s penitence  and  remorse,  he  could 
hardly  fancy  he  would  transgress  again. 

Still,  he  could  not  get  it  out  of  his  head, 
and  as  he  stood  watching  the  water,  he 
wished  there  were  such  a thing  as  the 
magic  glass  he  had  read  to  the  children 
about;  that  he  might  see  as  far  as  Ware- 
ham,  and  satisfy  himself  about  them. 

Had  his  wish  been  gratified  at  that  mo 
ment,  he  would  have  seen  Humphrey  and 
Miles  astride  on  the  rotten  bough,  with 
flushed  and  exultant  faces. 

The  same  change  of  weather  now  took 
place  as  was  taking  place  at  Wareham. 
Umbrellas  and  carriage-hoods  were  quickly 
put  up,  and  very  soon  the  park  was  empty. 

Sir  Everard  retraced  his  steps  to  his  club 
and  was  closing  his  umbrella  leisurely  in  the 
hall,  when  a telegram  was  put  into  his 
nand. 

He  glanced  his  eye  hastily  over  it,  and 

19 


218 


MIS  VNJ)  EBSTOOD. 


then  (lashed  into  the  street  and  hailed  a 
hansom. 

“ Waterloo  Station/’  he  shouted,  as  he 
threw  himself  into  it ; “ double  fare  if  you 
catch  the  train !” 

Bustle  and  confusion,  though  no  doubt, 
nninteresting  and  unpoetical,  are,  certainl}^, 
at  such  times  useful.  They  keep  the  mind 
from  dwelling  too  much  on  the  painful,  and 
thus  rub  off  the  sharp  edge  of  the  first  mo- 
ment. 

So  it  was  not  till  Sir  Everard  was  in  the 
train,  and  tearing  swiftly,  though  quietly  to 
Wareham,  that  he  realized  his  position. 

Till  then,  his  thoughts  had  been  entirely 
taken  up  with  passing  this  carriage,  shaving 
that  omnibus,  or  rounding  that  corner.  He 
had  chafed  at  every  stoppage,  fumed  at  every 
delay,  and  been  able  to  think  of  nothing  but 
whether  or  no  he  should  catch  the  train. 

And  now,  the  strain  over,  he  leant  back 
in  the  railway  carriage  and  examined  the 
telegram  at  leisure. 


MIS  UHDERSTO  OE. 


215 

There  was  not  much  to  be  learnt  from  it ; 
it  was  terse  and  unsatisfactory,  like  most 
messages  of  the  kind — just  sufficiently  clear 
not  to  quell  all  hope,  and  yet  undefined 
enough  to  give  reins  to  the  imagination.  It 
contained  these  words : “ An  accident  hai 
happened.  Both  the  young  gentlemen  have 
fallen  into  the  pond,  but  neither  are  drown 
ed.  Come  directly.” 

Those  who  have  read  and  re-read  such 
missives,  and  vainly  endeavored  to  extract 
something  from  them,  will  best  understand 
how  Sir  Everard  tortured  himself  during  the 
next  quarter  of  an  hour.  Might  not  this 
be  a part  of  the  truth,  and  the  rest  con- 
cealed ? Might  it  not  be  meant  as  a prepa- 
ration ? 

But,  no — unless  the  message  told  a deli- 
berate  falsehood,  “ neither  were  drowned.” 
Why,  then,  bid  him  come  directly,  unless 
Miles’s  condition  after  his  immersion  in  the 
water  was  all  but  hopeless.  “A  ducking 
will  not  hurt  Humphrey,”  he  reflected  • “ so 
ol  course,  it  is  Miles  ’ 


220 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


He  thought  of  Miles’s  fragile  appearance 
as  he  stood  in  the  corn-field.  How  little  he 
was  fitted  to  cope  with  such  an  accident* 
Fragile  and  flushed,  with  traces  of  his  late 
illness  lingering  about  his  lustrous  eyes  and 
colorless  lips. 

He  worked  himself  up  into  a terrible  state 
of  anxiety  as  the  train  neared  Wareham, 
and  restlessly  he  laid  the  blame  of  the  acci- 
dent on  everything  and  everybody. 

What  business  had  they  at  the  pond  ? he 
angrily  questioned  ; it  was  the  most  flagrant 
act  of  disobedience  on  Humphrey’s  part  he 
had  ever  heard  of. 

For  the  moment,  he  felt  as  if  he  could 
never  forgive  the  boy  for  such  a barefaced 
breach  of  his  command.  Over  and  over 
again  had  Miles’s  health,  life  even,  been  en- 
dangered by  Humphrey’s  heedlessness. 

Heedlessness  ! — willfulness  he  felt  inclined 
to  call  it.  Perhaps  he  was  too  indulgent. 
Stricter  measures  should  be  enforced  ; the 
boy  must  and  should  learn  to  obey.  He 
liad  been  weak,  but  he  would  be  so  no 


MliSUNJ)MRSTOOD. 


221 


longer.  No  punishment  could  be  severe 
enough  for  Humphrey ; and  punished  he 
should  certainly  be. 

Then  he  thought  perhaps  it  was  too 
much  to  expect  of  such  a young  creature 
and  he  began  to  lay  the  blame  on  others. 
Virginie — why  was  she  not  there?  Why 
did  not  she  prevent  their  going  to  the 
pond  ? 

Even  the  reapers  and  the  bailiff  came  in 
for  a share  of  his  anger.  Surely,  among  so 
many  people,  somebody  might  have  prevented 
two  children  leaving  the  field  ! 

But,  after  all,  Humphrey  was  the  chief 
offender,  and  he  felt  he  ought  not  to  try 
to  shield  him,  by  throwing  the  blame  on 
others. 

There  was  no  carriage  waiting  for  him  at 
the  station,  and  no  one  could  give  him  any 
information  beyond  that  contained  in  the 
telegram. 

He  ordered  a fly,  and  then,  unable  to 
bear  the  delay,  walked  on  without  it.  He 
got  more  and  more  anxious  as  he  neared  the 
19* 


222 


MiSUNDBMSTOOD. 


Abbey.  He  took  a short  cut  to  the  house 
There  was  no  one  about — not  a servant,  not 
a gardener.  His  heart  misgave  him  as  he 
strode  on.  He  reached  the  hall  door,  passed 
in,  ran  up  the  stairs  to  the  nursery.  Still 
no  sound — no  voices.  The  nurseries  were 
empty ! He  called.  No  answer.  He 
shouted.  How  horrible  his  voice  sounded 
in  the  empty  passages ! He  rang  the  bell 
furiously,  and,  without  waiting  the  answer, 
he  ran  down -stairs  again,  and  opened  the 
library  door. 

A confused  hum  of  voices  struck  upon  his 
ear,  a confused  group  of  people  swam  before 
his  eyes,  but  he  only  distinguished  a little 
form  that  ran  forward  with  outstretched 
arms;  and  with  an  exclamation  of  fervent 
thanksgiving  he  clasped  Miles  safe,  warm, 
and  unhurt  in  his  arms ! 

How  eagerly  he  felt  the  little  pulse  and 
chafed  the  little  hands!  He  stopped  the 
child’s  mouth  with  kisses  whenever  he  at- 
tempted to  speak. 

He  was  so  occupied  with  his  newly  r& 


MIS  UNDEnSTOOD, 


223 

covered  treasure,  that  he  did  not  notice 
what  a deep  silence  had  fallen  on  the  assem- 
bled group  on  his  entrance ; but  now  he 
turned  to  one  of  the  maids,  and  asked  how 
the  accident  had  happened.  And,  by  the 
way,’'  he  added,  ‘‘where  is  Master  Hum- 
phrey?” 

No  one  answered. 

“ Where  is  Master  Humphrey?”  repeated 
the  baronet. 

‘‘They  told  me  not  to  say,”  began  little 
Miles;  but  his  father  was  looking  directly 
at  one  of  the  gardeners,  and  the  man  was 
obliged  to  answer. 

“ If  you  please.  Sir  Everard,  we  carried 
Master  Buncombe  in  there,”  pointing  to  the 
drawing-room. 

“ In  there  r said  the  baronet,  amazed. 

“ If  you  please.  Sir  Everard,  it  was  the 
first  room  we  came  to ; and  the  only  one 
where  there  was  a sofa.” 

Before  he  had  done  speaking,  Sir  Everard 
was  in  the  room.  A shutter  had  been  open- 
ed, and  there  was  just  light  enough  for  him 


224 


MjSUN  DERSTOOD. 


to  see  Virginie  bending  over  the  sofa,  round 
which  was  a group  of  people. 

The  doctor  came  forward  from  among 
them,  but  Sir  Everard  pushed  past  him,  and 
advanced  to  the  side  of  the  sofa. 

And  there,  under  his  mother’s  picture, 
colorless,  motionless,  and  to  all  appearance 
lifeless,  lay  the  boy  for  whom  “ no  punish- 
ment could  be  severe  enough,”  and  whose 
disobedience  he  had  felt  he  never  could 
forgive ! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


()  one  was  t o blame.  The  reapers  had 


run  to  the  pond  on  hearing  the  chil- 
dren’s cries,  and  had  extricated  them  imme- 
diately ; Virginie  had  sent  for  the  doctor  at 
once.  So  no  one  had  failed  in  their  duty ; 
or  had,  as  I say,  been  to  blame — except  the 
poor  little  victim  himself. 

“At  present,”  the  doctor  informed  Sir 
Everard,  “ the  extent  of  the  injuries  could 
not  be  determined.” 

Miles,  from  having  been  jerked  off  the 
end  of  the  branch  straight  into  the  water, 
had  escaped  with  a wetting ; but  Humphrey, 
from  having  been  nearer  the  tree,  had  come 
in  contact  with  the  trunk,  and  the  bough 
under  the  w ater,  and  the  doctor  feared  both 
spine  and  head  had  been  injured.  He  asked 


(125) 


226  MISUNJySRSTOOD. 

for  further  advice,  and  a man  was  dispatched 
with  a telegram  for  two  of  the  greatest  sur- 
geons of  the  day. 

The  calamity  was  so  sudden,  so  awful,  so 
unexpected  ! Sir  Everard  could  not  realize 
it  — kept  on  misunderstanding  the  doctor’s 
incoherence — the  poor  old  doctor  who  had 
known  him  all  his  life,  and  could  not  bear 
to  be  the  one  to  tell  him  that,  even  if  his 
boy’s  life  were  spared,  he  must  ever  be  a 
helpless  cripple. 

Humphrey  a cripple ! Humphrey  to  lie 
on  his  back  all  his  life ! Sir  Everard  could 
not  grasp  the  idea,  could  not  collect  his 
thoughts  to  conceive  anything  so  impossi- 
ble, could  not  follow  the  doctor  through  the 
circumlocution  in  which  he  tried  to  clothe 
the  announcement,  and  at  last  lolst  patience. 

“ For  God’s  sake,  tell  me  what  you  mean ' 
Can  you  be  trying  to  break  to  me  that  my 
boy — that  child  who  has  never  to  my  knowl- 
edge sat  still  in  his  life — will  never  have  the 
use  of  his  limbs  any  more?  Speak  out,  1 
implore  you !” 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


227 

" Never  any  more,  Sir  Everard ! — never 
%ny  more/’ 

Still  he  could  not  realize  it,  could  not  take 
t in. 

He  turned  away,  and  went  out  into  the 
air,  to  clear,  as  it  were,  the  mistiness  of  his 
brain,  and  to  bring  himself  face  to  face  with 
the  words,  so  as  to  force  himself  to  under- 
stand them.  “ Never  have  the  use  of  his 
limbs  any  more !”  Simple  English  words — 
he  knew  he  must  really  understand  them, 
and  yet  they  seemed  to  him  mere  sounds, 
devoid  of  any  signification. 

He  repeated  them  over  and  over  again, 
to  see  what  he  could  make  of  them.  “ Never 
have  the  use  of  his  limbs  anj?^  more.”  That 
meant  — let  him  think  it  out  clearly  — it 
meant,  that  his  boy,  his  restless,  impetuous 
boy,  would  be  chained  to  a sofa  all  his  life, 
for  ever  cut  off  from  all  that  glorified  his 
young  existence — that  was  what  it  meant. 
It  meant — for  now  that  thought  was  begin- 
ning to  assert  herself,  each  word  that  was 


228 


MISVNDEHSTOOD. 


meaningless  before,  was  becoming  alive  with 
signification — it  meant  that  all  that  had  been 
should  be  again  no  more — that  all  that  the 
child  called  life  was  over — that  all  that  went 
to  make  up  the  sum  of  his  existence  was 
gone — that  death  in  life  must  be  his  portion 
for  ever  and  for  ever ! 

For  what  did  the  word  life  mean  to  Hum- 
phrey ? Why,  the  powers  of  which  he  was 
to  be  deprived  were  the  very  germs  of  his 
whole  existence — the  things  for  which  he 
was,  and  moved,  and  had  his  being.  Take 
them  away,  and  what  remained  ? Life  be- 
reft of  these,  what  was  it  to  him  ? What  is 
a husk  from  which  the  kernel  has  been 
taken,  or  a casket  from  which  the  jewel  is 
gone? 

Sir  Everard  was  not  a worldly  man,  and 
in  those  moments  he  did  not  dwell  on  the 
blighted  youth,  and  blasted  manhood  ; he 
did  not  think  of  the  earthly  career  for  ever 
clouded,  the  hopes  of  earthly  distinction  for 
ever  shut  out.  He  did  not  see  that  his  boy 
was  debarred  from  every  path  of  usefulness 


MIS  JJND ERST  OOD. 


22g 


or  honor  which  man  delights  to  tread — alike 
shut  out  from  active  service,  and  learned 
profession.  Results  painful  enough  in  them 
selves ; but  it  is  none  of  them  that  have 
Drought  that  despairing  expression  to  his  set, 
white  face.  No ! 

He  is  thinking  of  the  active  little  figure, 
chained  to  an  invalid’s  chair.  He  is  trying 
to  realize  that  the  lawns  and  gardens  will 
know  his  joyous  presence  no  more.  Sur- 
rounded by  the  haunts  of  the  young  life,  he 
is  forcing  himself  to  believe  that  all  hence- 
forth shall  be  lone  and  silent,  that  never 
again  shall  they  echo  to  his  light  footstep,  or 
ring  with  his  merry  laugh ; that  the  active 
limbs  shall  be  motionless,  and  the  busy  hands 
for  ever  still.  And  only  one  word  rose  to 
his  lips,  “ Impossible ! ” 

At  moments  like  these,  how  our  feelings 
ore  reflected  on  all  things  around.  Never 
Defore  had  Sir  E\erard  so  keenly  realized 
the  endless  motion  of  nature. 

With  the  probable  fate  of  his  boy  lying 
Defore  him,  he  was  perhaps  exaggerating  the 
20 


23D 


MlSVNDEItSTOOD. 


Dlessing  of  movement;  but  certainly  he  had 
never  before  so  forcibly  noticed  how  every 
little  leaf  on  the  trees  fluttered  as  the  breeze 
passed  over  it,  how  every  little  blade  of 
grass  shook  and  danced  in  the  wind,  how 
the  boughs  swayed  and  the  blossoms  nodded, 
how  the  waters  of  the  streamlet  rippled  and 
leapt  on  their  way  ! 

And  this  with  what  is  called  inanimate 
nature ; and  when  it  came  to  t^  e birds,  and 
the  beasts,  and  the  insects  ! 

It  was  cruel  of  two  lambs  to  come  and 
gambol  together  at  that  moment,  just  under 
the  poor  father’s  eyes  ; cruel  of  a little  rabbit 
to  choose  that  second,  out  of  all  the  hours 
of  a long  summer  day,  to  pop  up  from  under 
the  brushwood,  and  scamper  away  across 
the  green  grass!  When  had  the  air  ever 
been  so  full  of  butterflies,  horseflies,  and  bee- 
tles ; for  ever  and  ever  on  the  wing  1 The 
bees  hurried  from  flower  to  flower,  the  birds 
chased  each  other  from  tree  to  tree,  the 
Bummer  gnats  never  rested  tor  a moment ; — 
and  Humphrey,  of  all  Nature’s  children  the 


MIS  UNDERSTOOD 


33  ‘ 

happiest  and  the  brightest,  was  to  be  the 
one  who  should  sport  in  the  sunshine  no 
more! 

He  thought  of  the  boy’s  restless  activity 
his  joy  in  motion  and  exercise.  From  dawn 
to  sunset,  never  still,  never  weary  of  rushing 
about  in  the  open  air.  There  had  always 
been  with  him  a sort  of  lavish  enjoyment  of 
existence  for  its  own  sake,  as  if  there  were 
happiness  in  the  mere  sense  of  being  and 
moving. 

Even  as  a little  baby  it  had  always  been 
the  same.  When  he  could  scarcely  stand 
alone,  he  would  struggle  to  get  out  of  his 
nurse’s  arms,  and  start  off  by  himself,  heed- 
less of  the  many  falls  he  would  get  on  the 
way.  And  as  memory  brought  back  the 
early  days  of  the  child’s  life,  came  mingled 
with  them  the  thought  of  the  mother  who 
had  so  delighted  in  him.  And  as  Sir  Ever- 
ard  remembered  how  she  had  gloried  in  his 
manly  spirit,  and  in  his  energy  and  activity 
he  bowed  his  head,  and  thanked  God  tha( 
she  had  not  lived  to  see  this  day. 


232 


MI8UNDMBST00V. 


Once  more  he  saw  her  restraining  her 
maternal  fears  that  she  might  not  interfere 
with  her  boy’s  love  of  enterprise,  or  bring  a 
shadow  on  his  happiness.  Once  more  he 
seemed  to  hear  the  baby  voice  at  the  bed- 
room door,  before  the  shutters  were  opened. 
“ Mother,  mother,  may  I go  out  ?” 

The  breathless  pause  till  the  answer  came  • 
“ Out  now  ! My  darling,  it  is  so  early  and 
so  cold.  Better  wait  a little !” 

“ The  insides  of  houses  are  so  hot,  mother ; 

please  say  1 may  go  out !” 

Had  the  boy  ever  walked  ? Had  he  ever 
done  anything  but  run? 

Sir  Everard  could  not  recall  one  instance 
of  meeting  him  out  of  doors,  except  running 
and  rushing  headlong,  jumping  over  every- 
thing which  obstructed  his  path. 

Once  again,  there  rose  the  thought  of  the 
motionless  little  figure  sitting  pale  and  silent 
in  a cripple’s  chair.  God  help  the  poor 
father!  In  the  bitterness  of  his  spirit  he 
had  almost  said,  “ Sooner  than  clip  his 
wings,  let  him  soar  away.” 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


233 


He  retraced  his  steps,  and  on  entering  the 
hall,  was  informed  by  the  trembling  Virginie 
that  Humphrey  had  recovered  conscious- 
less,  and  had  spoken. 

He  hurried  to  the  drawing-room,  but  the 
ioctor  met  him  at  the  door,  and  motioned 
him  back. 

“ Do  not  go  in  just  yet,”  he  said,  closing 
the  door  behind  him ; “ he  seems  to  fear 
your  displeasure  about  something,  and 
shows  great  excitement  at  the  thought  of 
seeing  you.  I dare  say,”  he  added,  quickly, 
for  he  was  touched  by  the  expression  of 
pain  which  passed  over  the  poor  father’s 
face,  “ I dare  say  he  will  get  over  it,  when 
he  is  a little  less  confused.” 

“ Does  he  understand  what  has  hap- 
pened ?” 

“ I think  so,  now.  At  first  he  was  sadly 
confused  at  finding  himself  in  the  draw'ing- 
room ; but  by  degrees  he  remembered  the 
events  of  the  day.  The  moment  he  grasped 
the  idea  of  the  accident,  he  became  excited, 
and  asked  repeatedly  for  his  little  brother 


234 


MIS  VNi) EB8T0  0D. 


I should  fancy  this  anxiety  was  associated 
with  his  shrinking  from  seeing  you.  Per 
haps  you  understand  better  than  I do?” 

“ I have  been  obliged  several  times  lately 
to  find  fault  with  him  for  leading  his  little 
brother  into  mischief,  and  this  last  unfortu- 
nate escapade  I had  most  especially  forbid- 
den. Miles  is,  as  you  know,  so  very  deli- 
cate that  I am  obliged  to  be  very  careful 
of  him.” 

This  was  said  almost  in  an  exculpatory  tone. 

“ He  IS  certainly  very  delicate,”  answered 
the  doctor,  “ and  ought  not  to  be  exposed 
to  such  dangers.  I am  very  thankful  he 
has  escaped  so  easily.  Now  my  little  pa- 
tient’s constitution  is  altogether  different; 
seldom  have  I seen  a finer  or  stronger. 
However,”  he  added,  breaking  off  with  a 
sigh,  “the  most  iron  frame  is  not  pi  oof 
against  such  an  accident  as  this.  I think, 
Sir  Everard,”  he  concluded,  “that  what 
you  tell  me  would  quite  account  for  the  ex. 
citement.  May  I tell  him  from  you  that 
ce  has  no  cause  to  fear  your  anger  ?” 


MIS  UNDMRSTO  OR. 


235 


“Need  you  ask?”  said  the  baronet,  impa- 
tiently, and  the  doctor  returned  to  the  sick 
room. 

Sir  Everard  paced  up  and  down  till  the 
door  re-opened,  and  the  doctor  made  him  a 
sign  to  come  in. 

He  entered,  and  advanced  to  the  side  of 
:he  sofa.  The  room  was  so  dark  that  he 
could  only  see  the  outline  of  the  curly  head, 
lying  back  among  the  pillows,  but  a little 
hand  came  out,  and  pulled  him  down. 

“Father,”  in  a voice  which  was  hardly 
above  a whisper,  “it’s  all  right.  He  isn’t 
hurt  a bit — not  even  a cold.  I am  so  glad 
it  is  me  that  is  hurt  instead  of  him.” 

“ Oh,  hush ! hush ! my  darling.” 

“ You’re  not  angry  with  me,  father  ? I’m 
so  sorry  I climbed.  I’ll  never  do  it  again 
Say  you’re  not  angry,  father.” 

“ No,  no  my  poor  child — I’m  not  angry 
only  so  sorry  to  see  you  ill.” 

“ Am  I very  ill  ? What  is  the  matter  with 
my  head?  Shall  I soon  be  well  again?” 

“ I hope  so,  darling  There  are  some 


MIS  UNDERSTOOD. 


236 

gentlemen  coming  to-morrow,  to  help  yo» 
to  get  well  very  quick.” 

“ I shall  be  well  by  the  Harvest  Home 
shan’t  I?” 

“ The  Harvest  Home  ? When  is  that  ?” 

“ You  promised  to  fix  a day  early  next 
week,  you  know,  father.  Which  day  shall 
it  be?” 

“ I — 1 don’t — quite  know  what  da}'^  to  fix, 
ray  boy.” 

“ The  corn  fell  so  fast,  all  day,  father — it 
must  be  ready  soon.  Shall  we  say  Tues- 
day?” 

No  answer : only  an  inarticulate  murmur. 

“ Then  that’s  settled.  Shall  I be  well 
enough  on  Tuesday  to  dance  ‘ Up  the  mid- 
dle and  down  again,’  with  Dolly?” 

Rises  again,  all  unbidden,  before  the 
father’s  eyes,  a motionless  little  figure,  sit- 
ting in  a cripple’s  chair.  Dance ! Ought 
he  to  tell  him?  ought  he  to  prepare  him’ 
who  was  to  do  it,  if  not  he  ? who  else  was 
to  tell  him  of  the  blight  that  had  fallen  . a 
his  young  life  ? 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


237 

“ You  don’t  tell  me,  father.  Shall  I be 
« ell  soon  ?” 

He  could  not  tell  him.  He  only  kissed 
Jhe  little  hand,  and  murmured,  “ God  grant 
you  may,  my  child  !” 

“ 1 shan’t  be  able  to  lie  still  very  long. 
If  it  wasn’t  that  I feel  so  tired,  I should  like 
to  jump  up  now.” 

“ Are  you  very  tired,  Humphrey  ?” 

“Yes,”  with  a sigh,  “and  my  back  aches, 
and  so  does  my  head,  and  feels  so  funny 
It  makes  my  eyes  swim,  and  that  makes  me 
so  sleepy.” 

“ Will  you  try  to  go  to  sleep  ?” 

“ Yes,”  murmured  the  child,  and  his  heavy 
eyes  closed ; “ I shall  wake  up  quite  well  to- 
morrow.” 

“A  good  sign,”  whispered  Sir  Everard  to 
the  doctor.  The  doctor  did  not  answer ; 
and  Sir  Everard  went  up  to  the  nursery,  to 
see  Miles.  The  little  fellow  was  gazing  out 
of  the  window,  humming  a forlorn  little 
tune  to  himself.  Jane,  with  red  eyes,  was 
sitting  at  work. 


MISUNDEUSTOOJ). 


238 

Sir  Everard  took  the  child  up  in  his  arms 
“ What  are  you  doing,  my  little  man  ?’“ 

“ I’m  so  dull  without  Humphie.  When 
will  he  come  and  play  ?” 

“ Soon,  I hope,  darling.” 

Is  Humphie  going  to  sleep  all  night  in 
the  drawing-room  ?” 

“ Yes — isn’t  that  funny  ?” 

“ May  I go  and  say  good-night  to  him  ?” 

“ No ; you  can’t  go  to  him  to-night.” 

Miles’s  eyes  filled  with  tears.  I can’t  go 
to  sleep  without  saying  good-night  to  Hum- 
phie.” 

“ Ah ! don’t  cry,  my  child,”  said  the  poor 
father,  beseechingly.  His  feelings  had  been 
on  the  strain  so  many  hours;  he  felt  he 
could  not  stand  any  more,  and  he  dare  1 not 
let  his  thoughts  dwell  on  the  subject.  He 
tried  to  turn  the  conversation.  “Tell  me,” 
he  said,  with  a forced  smile,  “wha(  was 
that  little  song  you  were  singing  to  yoi  rself 
when  I came  in  ?” 

“It  was  about  Humpty-Dumpty,’  said 
Mnes,  mournfully. 


MIS  UNDERSTOOD. 


239 

“ Let  me  see : Humpty-Dumpty,  was  an 
egg,  wasn’t  he  ?” 

“ That  gentleman  said  it  was  H umphie 
who  was  Humpty-Dumpty.  Is  that  true, 
Fardie  ?” 

“No,  darling;  how  could  Humphrey  be 
an  egg  ?’’ 

“ One  part’s  true,  though,’’  said  Miles , 
“ ‘ Humpty-Dumpty  had  a great  fall.’  ’’ 

“ Ah  ! that’s  true  !’’  sighed  Sir  Everard. 

“ What’s  the  end,  Fardie  ? I want  to  re- 
member it,  and  I can’t — do  you  ?’’ 

Why  did  Sir  Everard  put  the  child  down 
so  suddenly,  and  why  should  his  voice  falter 
a little,  as  he  repeated  the  baby  couplet  ? 
They  were  only  nursery  rhymes,  and  this  is 
how  they  ended : 

“All  the  king’s  horses,  and  all  the  king’s  men, 

Will  never  set  Humpty-Dumpty  up  again.” 

“ It’s’diculous nonsense, Fardie, oi course?' 

“ A ridiculous  nonsensica^rhyme,  darling !” 

But  ah ! how  nearly  the  sublime  and  the 
ridiculous  touch  sometimes  in  this  world  ! 


CHAPTER  XV. 


Humphrey  passed  the  night  part.5 
in  heavy  sleep  and  partly  in  feverish 
restlessness. 

His  first  inquiry  in  the  morning  was  for 
Miles,  and  the  next  for  the  gentlemen  who 
were  to  help  him  to  get  well  so  quick. 

The  latter  he  was  told  could  not  arrive 
till  eleven  o’clock,  but  Sir  Everard  went  to 
fetch  little  Miles,  and  whispering  to  him  not 
to  talk  much  or  to  stay  long,  he  put  the 
child  down  and  stayed  by  the  door  to 
watch  the  meeting  between  the  two  little 
brothers. 

Miles  advanced  rather  timidly,  the  room 
was  so  dark  and  everything  looked  so 
strange.  But  as  soon  as  he  distinguished 
hi.s  brother  he  ran  forward. 

^240) 


UISUNDEBSTOOD. 


241 

“ Humphie ! get  up,  get  up.  Why  do  you 
'ie  there,  and  look  so  white  ?” 

“ I’m  ill.  Miles  !” — ^in  a tone  half  piaintive, 
half  triumphant. 

^'Musn't  be  ill,  Humphie  — oh,  don’t  be 
ill !” 

“ You're  often  ill.  Miles ; why  shouldn’t  I 
be  ill  sometimes  ?” 

“ Don’t  like  it,”  said  the  child,  his  eyes 
filling  with  tears.  “ Oh,  Humphie,  I wish 
we  hadn’t  tummelled  into  the  pond  !” 

At  this  moment  Sir  Everard  was  called 
away,  and  informed  that  the  physicians  had 
arrived  from  London. 

He  found  them  in  the  dining-room,  talk- 
ing over  the  case  with  the  village  doctor 
and,  after  ordering  them  some  breakfast,  he 
returned  to  prepare  the  little  invalid  for 
their  arrival. 

As  he  approached  the  room  he  was 
alarmed  to  hear  Humphrey’s  voice  raised,, 
and  still  more,  when  little  Miles,  with  a face 
of  terror  came  running  out. 

Oh,  Fardie,  Fardie ! will  you  come  to 


21 


MISUNDEnSTOOD 


24:^ 

Humphie?  He’s  crying  so,  and  he  wants 
you  to  come  directly !” 

“ Crying  so  ! What  is  the  matter  wdth 
him  ?” 

“ Oh,  I don’t  know  ? He  began  to  cry 
and  scream  so  when  I said  it !” 

“ Said  what — said  what  ?” 

“ Oh,  Fardie,  I was  telling  him  that  I 
heard  Virginie  tell  some  one  he  would  be 
‘boiteux’  all  his  life,  and  I only  asked  him 
what  it  meant  I” 

• • • • • 

Vainly  all  night  long  had  Sir  Everard 
tried  to  frame  a sentence  in  which  to  con- 
vey the  fatal  news. 

Phrase  after  phrase  had  he  rejected,  be- 
cause nothing  seemed  to  him  to  express 
half  the  love  and  tenderness  in  which  so 
terrible  an  announcement  should  be  clothed. 
Words  were  so  hard,  so  cold  ! They  were 
so  weak  to  express  what  he  wanted  — so 
utterly  inadequate  to  contain  all  the  pity,  all 
the  yearning  sympathy  with  which  his  heaii 
was  overflowing ! 


MISUNDEhSTOOJ). 


243 


And  now  without  any  preparation,  with- 
out  any  softening,  the  cruel  blow  had  fallen ! 

For  one  moment  the  father’s  heart  failed 
him,  and  he  felt  he  could  not  face  the  boy, 
could  not  meet  his  questioning  gaze,  could 
not  with  his  own  lips  confirm  the  fatal 
truth.  But  there  was  no  time  for  reflection. 
Humphrey’s  feeble  voice  calling  him  to  come 
quickly,  caught  his  ear,  and  as  in  a dream 
he  advanced,  and  stood  by  the  bedside. 

“ Father !”  exclaimed  the  child  (and  how 
shall  we  express  the  tones  of  his  voice,  or 
convey  an  idea  of  the  pitiful  entreaty  and 
nameless  horror  with  which  they  rang  ?)  " it 
isn’t  true — is  it  ? Oh,  say  it  isn’t  true !” 

All  the  words  of  consolation  and  soothing 
died  upon  the  father’s  lips,  and  his  tongue 
seemed  tied. 

“ She’s  always  saying  unkind  things,” 
sobbed  the  child,  clinging  to  him ; “ she 
oughtn’t  to — ought  she  ? Yoa  don’t  answer 
me,  father ! Father,  \vhy  don’t  j^ou  tell  me  ? 
Why  don’t  you  say  quick,  it’s  not  true?” 
And  as  his  fear  grew,  his  voice  faltered,  and 


244 


MISUNDBRSTOOD. 


his  grasp  on  his  father  tightened.  “Answe/ 
me — father — why — don’t  you — speak  ?” 

“ My  poor  child,  my  poor  little  fellow  !* 
One  more  struggle  for  the  truth,  in  spite  of 
the  failing  voice,  and  the  sense  of  deadly 
sickness. 

“ Lift  up  your  face,  father.  Let — me — 
see — ^your — ^face !” 

What  was  there  in  the  face  that  struck 
terror  to  his  heart,  and  brought  conviction 
thumping  up  in  great  throbs,  even  before 
the  faltering  words  came. 

“Supposing  it  should  be  true  — what 
then !’’ 

Ah  ! what  then  ? His  dizzy  brain  refused 
to  attach  any  meaning  to  the  words,  or  to 
help  him  to  understand  how  much  was  con- 
tained in  them. 

The  loud  beating  of  his  heart  echoed 
them,  his  parched  lips  strove  to  repeat  them, 
and  wildl  y he  fought  with  his  failing  senses, 
straining  every  nerve  to  find  an  answer  to 
the  question.  In  vain  ! Every  pulse  in  his 
throbbing  head  seemed  to  take  up  the  w ords 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


245 


and  beat  them  into  his  brain ; the  air  was 
Alive  with  voices  around  him,  and  voices 
and  pulses  alike  cried,  “ What  then  ? — what 
then  ?”  But  the  question  went  unanswered, 
for  Humphrey  fainted  away. 

Sir  Everard  hastily  summoned  the  doc« 
tors,  and  they  did  all  they  could  to  restore 
him. 

In  a little  while  he  showed  signs  of  com- 
ing to  himself,  and  to  prevent  his  thoughts 
returning  to  the  subject  which  had  agitated 
him,  they  requested  Sir  Everard  to  remain 
out  of  sight,  and  stationed  themselves  close 
to  the  bedside,  so  that  theirs  should  be  the 
first  figures  that  should  attract  his  atten- 
tion. 

As  Humphrey  slowly  recovered  con- 
sciousness, he  did  not  indeed  clearly  remem- 
ber on  what  his  thoughts  had  been  dwelling, 
but  that  there  was  something  in  his  mind 
from  which  he  shrank,  he  was  quite  aware. 

Waking  in  the  morning  to  a sense  of  some 
sorrow  which  possessed  us  ere  we  slept,  we 


M:S  UNDEB8 TO  01). 


246 

intuitively  feel  there  is  something  amiss, 
though  we  are  too  confused  to  remember 
what  it  is ; and  even  while  we  wish  to  recall 
it,  we  dread  to  turn  our  thoughts  that  way, 
lest  we  should  lose  the  temporary  peace  into 
which  forgetfulness  has  plunged  us. 

In  such  a passive  state  would  Humphrey 
have  remained,  had  not  the  doctors,  to  dis- 
tract his  thoughts,  touched  his  brow,  and 
caused  him  to  open  his  eyes. 

Alas!  they  little  knew  the  all-powerful 
association  of  the  place  where  he  lay. 

He  closed  his  eyes  again  directly,  and 
took  no  notice  of  the  doctors’  attempts  to 
lead  him  into  conversation;  but  in  that  one 
moment,  his  glance  had  rested  on  his  moth- 
er’s picture,  and  at  once  his  mind  wander- 
ed back — not  indeed  to  the  memory  they 
dreaded,  but  to  one  which  was  scarcely  less 
painful. 

We  will  follow  his  thoughts  for  a moment. 

He  is  alone ; all  alone  in  the  desolate 
apartment,  in  the  closed  uninhabited  room  ! 
The  twilight  is  creeping  slowly  on,  and  the 


MIS  UNDER  STO  OD. 


247 


silence  and  emptiness  within  and  without 
him,  tan  almost  be  felt.  Up-stairs  in  the 
nursery,  Miles  is  dying  — perhaps  already 
dead.  No  one  will  help  him,  or  be  sorry 
for  him.  And  as  the  sense  of  neglect  and 
isolation  steals  over  him  once  more,  his 
breast  heaves,  and  his  lips  move  : 

“ Mother,  I want  you  back  so  much 
every  one  is  angry  with  me  and  I am  so 
very  miserable !” 

No  answer,  no  sound. 

“ Mother  ! put  your  arms  round  me ! put 
my  head  on  your  shoulder !” 

Not  a word. 

It  is  only  a picture  after  all. 

• • • • > 

Never  to  play  with  Miles  any  more ! No 
more  games  on  the  stairs,  or  in  the  passages ! 
No,  never  more ! For  Miles  is  dying,  per- 
haps already  dead.  How  happy  the  baby 
in  the  picture  looks!  Can  it  really  be 
him?  Oh,  happy  baby,  always  close  to 
mother!  always  with  her  arms  round 
oim,  and  her  shoulder  against  his  head. 


MTSUMDEIiSTOCJ). 


248 

Oh,  if  he  could  climb  up  into  the  baby’s 
place,  and  stay  there  for  ever  and  ever! 
How  could  he  get  up  to  her?  She  is  in 
Heaven.  She  got  there  by  being  ill  and 
dying.  Why  should  die  not  get  ill,  and  die 
too.  Miles  is  dying,  mother  is  dead— he 
would  so  like  to  die  too.  But  it’s  no  use. 
He  never  is  ill — not  even  a cold.  Miles 
caught  cold  going  to  the  pond — the  pond 
where  the  water-lilies  are.  How  quiet  it 
was!  how  cool!  How  gently  they  dance 
upon  the  water,  those  lovely  water-lilies 
How  the  bird  sang,  and  the  rat  splashed  . . 
Come  up,  Miles  — it’s  as  safe  as  safe  can 
be ! . . . Stop ! . . . Miles  is  dying — how  could 
he  come  up  ? Miles  came  into  the  room,  and 
talked  about  the — jackdaw  . . . wasn’t  it? — 
the  poor  lame  jackdaw  . . . Miles  is  dying. . . . 
How  did  he  come  in  ? . . . Hop ! hop ! comes 
the  jackdaw,  poor  old  fellow ! But  what 
did  Miles  say  about  the  jackdaw  ? Boiteux  ! 
But  that's  not  his  name ; we  always  call  him 
Jack.  Boiteux  means  . . . The  jackdaw 
again  ! Hop,  hop,  he  comes  , . . He  wih 


MISXTNBEBSTOOI). 


249 

never  fly  again — never  ! Poor  old  jackdaw  ’ 
...  Is  it  ready  true  that  he  will  never  fly 
again?  It  is  not  true.  But  supposing  it 
should  be  true,  what  then  ? . . . Boiteux ! . . . 
Who  is  it  keeps  on  asking  me  what  ‘ boiteux’ 
means  ? . . . Boiteux ! “ What  then  ?”  Boi- 
teux means  jackdaw — no,  it  means  lame — no 
it  means  crip 

The  temporary  oblivion  is  over,  the  un- 
known dread  is  taking  a tangible  shape,  and 
recollection  rushes  over  him,  bringing  con- 
viction with  it. 

But  Hope,  ever  the  last  gift  in  the  casket, 
faintly  holds  out  against  certainty. 

“ No ! no b— not  that ! it  cant  be  that !” 

But  something  beating  in  his  heart,  beats 
Hope  down.  Mighty  throbs,  like  the  strokes 
of  a hammer,  beat  it  down,  down,  crush  it  to 
nothing ; and  a terrible  sinking  comes  in  its 
place.  It  is  true — and  in  an  instant  he  re- 
alizes  what  It  being  true  will  entail. 

As  lightning,  flashing  upon  the  path  of 
the  benighted  traveller,  reveals  to  him  for  a 
moment  the  country  lying  before  him,  i]lu- 


250 


MTS  UN  DER8T0  OV. 


mining  all  its  minutest  details ; so  thought, 
flashing  upon  the  future  of  the  child,  show- 
ed him  for  a moment  all  too  vividly  the 
life  of  crippled  helplessness  stretching  ou 
before  him — the  daily,  hourly  cross,  which 
must  be  his  for  ever ! 

Let  each  one  try  to  conceive  for  himself 
the  intensity  of  such  a moment,  to  such  a 
nature ! 

Let  each  one  try  to  realise  the  thoughts 
which  followed  each  other  in  hot  haste 
through  his  brain,  the  confused  phantasma- 
goria which  swam  before  him,  fading  away 
at  last,  and  leaving  only  two  distinct  pic- 
tures—the  jackdaw  hopping  about  in  his 
cage,  and  little  lame  Tom  in  the  village,  sit 
ting  in  his  cripple’s  chair. 

He  shrinks  back  in  horror,  his  soul  rises 
in  loathing:  he  pants,  and  wildly  throws 
himself  about,  with  a half-smothered  cry. 

“ Oh,  gently,  my  darling  ! you  will  hurt 
yourself.” 

It  is  his  father’s  voice,  and  he  turns  to  him 
fcnd  clings  tightly. 


MinUNBER  ST 


251 

I don't  care — I don't  care,  I want  to 
hart  myself.  I want  to  die.  I don't  want 
to  live  like  that  !*'  At  the  sight  of  the  phy- 
sicians, his  excitement  redoubled,  and  he 
clung  more  tightly  to  his  father.  No  ! No  ! 
Send  them  away  ! They  shan't  look  at  me, 
the}^  shan't  touch  me.  They  are  going  to 
try  and  make  me  well,  and  I don't  want  to 
get  well.  I wont  get  well !" 

The  doctors  retired,  as  their  presence 
excited  him  so  much,  and  Sir  Everard  tried 
to  loosen  the  boy's  convulsive  grasp  round 
his  neck. 

Humphrey  was  too  exhausted  to  retain 
the  position  long : his  hands  relaxed  their 
hold,  and  Sir  Everard  laid  him  back  on  the 
pillow. 

Once  more  the  soft  face  in  the  picture 
exercises  its  old  influence  over  him,  and 
charms  away,  as  of  old,  the  fit  of  passionate 
n^.bellion. 

Father,"  he  entreated,  in  a whisper,  let 
me  die  ! Promise  not  to  let  them  try  and 
make  me  well  again." 


252 


MIS  UND ERST  OOD, 


Bstween  surprise  and  emotion  Sii  Ever 
ard  could  not  answer.  He  thought  the  idea 
of  death  would  be  both  strange  and  repug- 
nant to  so  thoughtless  a creature ; and  he 
marvelled  to  hear  him  speak  of  it. 

‘‘  You'll  promise,  won't  you,  father?  You 
know  I couldjit  live  like  that ! Let  me  go 
and  live  with  mother  in  Heaven.  See," 
pointing  to  the  picture,  how  happy  I was 
in  her  arms  when  T was  a baby,  and  I w’ant 
to  lie  there  again  so  much ! Just  now,  when 
I thought  it  was  still  the  night  Miles  was  ill, 
before  I knew  I should  never  walk  or  run 
any  more,  even  then  I wanted  so  to  get  ill 
and  die,  that  I might  go  to  her,  and  I want 
it  more  than  ever  now.  I thought  then  I 
never  could  get  ill,  because  I am  so  strong ; 
but  now  I am  ill,  and  so  you'll  let  me  die ! 
Promise  not  to  try  and  make  me  well?' 

Three  times  Sir  Everard  strove  to  answer, 
and  three  times  his  voice  failed  him.  He 
managed,  however,  to  murmur  something 
which  sounded  like  an  affirmative,  which 
satisfied  and  quieted  the  child. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


253 


But  much  of  the  boy’s  speech  had  been 
wholly  inintelligible  to  him,  and  his  allu- 
sions to  his  mother’s  picture  especially 
puzzled  him.  Looking  upon  the  drawing- 
room as  a closed  room,  he  had  no  idea  that 
the  children  ever  penetrated  into  it,  or  that 
they  knew  of  the  existence  of  the  picture. 
And  laying  his  hand  on  the  child’s  head,  he 
said  : “ How  did  you  know  that  was  your 
mother,  Humphrey?” 

The  boy  shot  at  him  a glance  of  such 
astonishment  that  Sir  Everard  felt  rebuked, 
and  did  not  like  to  continue  the  conversa- 
tion ; and  the  doctors,  returning  at  that  mo- 
ment, it  was  not  resumed. 

This  time,  Humphrey  made  no  resistance, 
and  the  physicians  were  able  to  make  their 
examination. 

Leaving  the  village  doctor  by  the  bedside, 
Sir  Everard  led  the  way  to  the  library,  to 
hear  their  opinion. 

He  hardly  knew  what  he  wished.  Hum 
phre}*  s horror  at  his  impending  fate  had 
made  such  an  impression  on  Sir  Everard 
22 


254 


MISUNDEMSTOOD. 


that  he  almost  shrank  from  hearing  the  child 
would  recover  to  such  a life  as  that.  And 
yet  when  the  doctors  told  him  his  boy  must 
die,  a revulsion  of  feeling  swept  over  him, 
and  his  rebellious  heart  cried,  “Anything 
but  that !” 

“ Would  it  be  soon  ?”  he  tried  to  ask. 

“ It  could  not  be  far  off,”  they  said. 

“Would  the  child  suffer?” 

“They  hoped  not  — they  believed  not;’ 
and  they  wrung  his  hand  and  departed. 

He  followed  them  to  the  hall  door,  and 
waited  with  them  till  their  carriage  came 
up. 

It  was  a still  summer’s  morning  when  they 
came  out  upon  the  steps,  as  if  all  nature 
were  silently  and  breathlessly  awaiting  the 
verdict.  But  as  the  doctors  got  into  their 
carriage,  a light  breeze  sprang  up,  causing 
the  trees  to  sway  and  rustle  with  a mourn- 
ful sound,  as  if  they  knew  the  sentence,  and 
were  conveying  it  to  the  fields  around.  Sir 
Everard  stood  watching  them  as  they  drove 
away — those  great  court  physicians,  whO| 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


255 

ith  all  their  fame  and  all  their  learning 
could  do  nothing  for  his  boy — nothing! 

He  listened  to  the  sighing  of  the  wind, 
and  watched  the  trees  bowing  mournfully 
before  it ; and  he  wondered  vaguely  what 
was  the  language  of  the  winds  and  breezes, 
and  in  what  words  nature  was  learning  his 
boy’s  fate.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
breezes  pursued  the  retreating  doctors,  and 
flung  clouds  of  dust  around  them,  as  if 
taunting  them  with  their  inability  to  help ; 
and  then,  returning  once  more  to  the  oaks 
and  beeches,  resumed  their  melancholy  wail. 
Dreamily  there  recurred  to  his  mind  that 
ancient  fable  the  children  loved  to  hear : 
that  story  of  the  olden  time  which  tells  how 
the  wind  wafted  through  the  trees  to  the 
passers-by,  the  secret  which  had  been 
whispered  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth  : 

**  List ! Mother  Earth ; while  no  man  hears, 

King  Midas  has  got  asses’  ears.” 

And,  as  he  cast  one  more  look  at  the 
carriage  in  the  distance,  before  re  entering 


Misumdmrstoqd. 


25^ 

the  house,  the  messages  of  the  breezes 
seemed  to  come  into  his  head  in  the  form 
of  the  baby  rhymes  he  had  so  often  heard 
the  children  sing . 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


Before  returning  to  the  sick-room, 
Sir  Everard  sat  down  to  write  some 
letters. 

He  tried  to  think  of  some  one  he  could 
send  for,  to  help  him  in  his  trouble.  His 
mother  was  too  infirm  to  leave  home,  his 
sister  perfectly  useless,  and  they  were  the 
only  relations  he  had. 

His  brother-in-law  was  the  person  who 
would  have  been  the  greatest  comfort  to 
him,  but  he  had  just  been  appointed  to  a 
ship,  and  Sir  Everard  knew  him  to  be  up  to 
his  neck  in  preparations,  perpetually  veering 
between  London  and  Portsmouth.  As,  how- 
ever, he  must  pass  Wareham  Station  on  his 
journeys  to  and  fro.  Sir  Everard  wrote  to 
beg  him  if  possible,  to  stop  for  one  night  on 
his  way. 

22^ 

: V 


(^57) 


MIS  UMVI1£ST00D. 


258 

Then  he  went  up  to  the  nursery.  Miles 
was  having  his  mid-day  sleep;  and  Jane, 
the  housemaid,  was  sitting  by  his  crib.  Sir 
Everard  bent  down  to  kiss  the  little  fedow, 
who  was  lying  with  his  face  hidden,  hugging 
to  his  breast  some  ears  of  dead  corn ; but  as 
his  father’s  lips  touched  his  forehead,  he 
stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  said,  “ Humphie.” 

“ What  has  he  got  there?”  asked  Sir  Ev- 
erard of  Jane. 

“ Some  ears  of  corn,  I think.  Sir  Everard,’ 
answered  Jane;  “it’s  some  that  belonged 
to  Master  Humphrey,  and  he  says  no  one 
shan’t  touch  it  but  himself.  I heard  him  say 
he  had  found  it  in  a corner  of  the  nursery, 
and  that  Master  Humphrey  must  have  put 
it  there,  and  forgotten  it,  for  that  he  had 
meant  to  plant  it  in  his  garden.” 

Sir  Everard  did  not  answer : he  stooped 
over  the  little  sleeper,  and  kissed  him  again 
tenderly.  “ Whatever  you  do,  don’t  wake 
him,”  he  whispered ; “ let  him  sleep  as  long 
as  ever  he  can.” 

He  left  the  room;  and  as  he  went  do  vn- 


MISTXNDEnSTOOD. 


259 

stairs  the  children’s  conversation  in  the 
cornfield  lhat  Sunday  afternoon  recurred  to 
him,  and  he  could  not  help  making  a mental 
comparison  between  the  young  corn  and 
the  young  life,  both  so  suddenly  uprooted 
from  the  earth. 

Meeting  the  doctor  in  the  hall,  he  briefly 
communicated  the  physicians’  opinion,  and 
begged  him  to  make  it  known  to  the  house- 
hold. To  announce  it  himself,  he  felt  to  be 
impossible. 

He  found  the  worn-out  child  in  a heavy 
sleep  when  he  reached  the  drawing-room ; 
there  was  nothing  to  draw  his  thoughts 
from  the  subject  upon  which  they  had  been 
dwelling,  and  he  found  himself  going  over 
and  over  the  scene  in  the  corn-field.  He 
seemed  to  see  and  hear  it  all  with  startling 
distinctness.  Wherever  he  looked,  he  saw 
Humphrey  sitting  on  the  top  of  the  gate 
with  the  ears  of  corn  in  his  destroying  hand 
and  Miles  looking  sorrowfully  up  at  him. 

He  could  not  bear  it  at  last,  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  room,  to  get  it  out  of  his 


26o  misundemstood. 

head.  B it  even  then  their  voices  rang  in 
his  ears,  and  filled  him  with  pain. 

“ Never  mind,  Miles,”  sounded  ni  clear 
bell-like  tones  the  voice  which  would  never 
rise  above  a whisper  again.  “ I will  plant 
them  in  the  sunny  bit  of  our  own  garden, 
where  the  soil  is  much  better  than  here, 
and  where  they  will  grow  much  finer  than 
if  they  had  been  left  to  ripen  with  the  rest. 
Perhaps  they  will  thank  me  some  day  for 
having  pulled  them  out  of  the  rough  field, 
and  planted  them  in  such  a much  more 
beautiful  place.” 

But  he  might  have  found  comfort  instead 
of  pain  in  the  words,  had  he  followed  out 
the  metaphor  which  had  been  floating  in  his 
head.  For  would  net  the  child  one  day  « 
thank  Death,  the  destroyer ; who  in  uproot- 
ing him  fresh  and  green  from  the  earth, 
would  transplant  him  to  the  rich  soil  of 
God’s  own  garden ; where,  in  the  sunshine 
of  His  Maker’s  presence,  he  should  ripen 
into  that  perfection,  which  is  unknown 
among  the  children  of  men  ? 


UISVNDERSTOjD. 


261 


For  natures  like  Humphreys  are  not  fit 
for  this  rough  world.  Such  a capacity  for 
sorrow  has  no  rest  here,  and  such  a capabil- 
ity for  enjoyment  is  fittest  to  find  its  happi 
ness  in  those  all-perfect  pleasures  which  are 
at  God’s  right  hand  for  evermore. 

Humphrey  was  .seldom  conscious  during 
the  days  that  followed.  He  was  either  in 
heavy  sleep,  or  incoherent  rambling. 

He  would  lie  talking  to  his  mother’s  pic- 
ture in  a whisper;  going  over  games  and 
conversations  with  Miles ; or  wandering  on 
unintelligibly  to  himself. 

Whenever  he  was  aware  of  his  father’s 
presence,  he  would  complain  of  a curious 
noise  in  his  head,  and  ask  what  the  rushing 
and  singing  in  his  ears  meant ; but  before  he 
got  an  answer,  he  would  ramble  off  again, 
and  take  no  notice  of  what  was  passing 
around  him. 

Sir  Everard,  sitting  for  hours  by  his  bed- 
side, often  thought  of  the  boy’s  allusions  to 
his  mother’s  picture,  and  of  the  look  with 


262  MI8in^DE.^ST00D. 

which  Humphrey  had  greeted  his  inquiry 
as  to  how  he  had  known  it  was  she. 

Many  words  that  at  times  dropped  from 
the  child,  puzzled  him,  and  he  often  longed 
to  question  him  on  the  subject. 

Seeing  one  night  a gleam  of  consciousness 
in  the  dark  eyes,  he  went  closer  to  the  sofa, 
and  tried  to  attract  the  boy’s  attention. 

“ What  are  you  thinking  about,  Hum- 
phrey ?” 

“ Mother,”  he  answered,  in  a faint  voice ; 
“ when  is  she  coming  to  fetch  me  ?” 

But  before  there  was  time  for  an  answer, 
he  was  overcome  by  his  usual  drowsiness, 
and  Sir  Everard’s  opportunity  was  gone. 
But  perhaps  what  bewildered  him  most  was 
the  way  in  which  the  child  had  prayed  to 
be  allowed  to  die. 

To  Sir  Everard,  with  his  one-sided  view 
of  the  boy,  it  was  all  such  an  enigma. 

Here  was  a child  who  had  always  seemed 
6C»  entirely  taken  up  with  the  pleasures  of 
the  passing  moment,  that  his  past  and  future 
were  alike  merged  in  the  enjoyment  Df  the 


MIS  UNDEBSTOOJ). 


263 

present — a creature  on  whom  sorrow  and 
loss  had  produced  no  permanent  impression 
passing  over  him,  as  it  were,  only  to  leave 
him  more  gay,  more  heedless  than  ever. 
Permanent  impression ! why,  as  far  as  Sir 
Everard  knew,  they  had  produced  no  im- 
pression at  all ! 

Five  days  after  his  mother’s  death,  he  had 
seen  him  romping  and  playing  as  usual,  and 
from  that  day  to  this,  her  name  had  never 
passed  his  lips  ! And  now  he  talked  of  her 
as  if  her  memory  were  very  fresh  and 
familiar ; and  looked  upon  death  as  calmly 
as  if  he  had  been  contemplating  it  all  his 
life. 

What  did  it  mean  ? When  had  he  thought 
upon  such  things  ? How  was  it  that  he,  who 
had  enjoyed  to  the  full  the  pleasures  of  his 
young  life,  should  be  so  ready  to  renounce 
them  all? 

Sir  Everard  w^as  fairly  baffled,  as  he 
asked  himself  the  question  over  and  over 
again. 

Is  it,  then,  so  difficult  to  understand  ? 


264 


MlhVUDEESTOOD. 


Sir  Everard  should  have  gone  to  WordS' 
worth,  and  learnt  his  lesson  there. 

“ Children,”  he  says,  “ are  blest  and  power- 
ful:— 

“Their  world  lies  more  justly  balanced. 

Partly  at  their  feet,  and  part far from  them.” 

This  is  the  answer  to  the  question.  A 
child  lives,  no  doubt,  in  his  surroundings 
throws  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  pleas- 
ures or  the  sorrows  of  the  moment ; and  is 
immersed  in  the  interests  of  the  path  which 
lies  straight  before  him. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Talk  to  any  child  for 
a few  minutes,  and  see,  if,  in  the  description 
of  his  hopes  and  joys  some  such  phrases 
as  these  do  not  occur : “ When  I get  big 
“ When  I am  a man “ Some  day  when  I 
am  older.” 

He  is  looking  for  something  else ; he  is 
reaching  on  to  some  state  he  knows  not  of, 
but  which  is  to  be  more  perfect  than  his 

present  one. 

“ Sweetest  melodies  are  those 
That  are  by  distance  made  more  sweet  ’ 


MllSUNDERSTOOD. 


265 

There  . s something  else  waiting  for  him— 
worlds  not  realized — glories  as  yet  unknown. 
In  what  will  consist  their  charm,  he  knows 
not ; but  the  vague  is  the  possible,  and  the 
unknown  is  the  glorious.  So,  perhaps,  the 
‘‘  Land  which  is  very  far  off’  is  more  pres- 
ent to  him  than  it  is  to  those  of  riper  years ; 
not  so  much  more  shadowy  than  any  other 
part  of  the  transcendent  future  lying  before 
him. 

A child’s  world  is  so  full  of  mystery  too. 
Everything  is  so  wonderful  and  unexplained, 
that  the  ^‘Things  unseen  and  eternal”  are 
scarcely  more  incomprehensible  than  the 
things  unseen  and  temporal.  Where  every- 
thing is  so  strange,  one  thing  is  not  much 
more  strange  than  another. 

Look  how  many  inexplicable  things  are 
occurring  every  day  around  him.  Take  the 
mysteries  ot  birth  and  death,  for  instance 
How  soon  he  grows  familiar  with  them 
In  a few  days,  the  new  little  brother  or 
sister  seems  as  though  it  had  always  been 
.here  ; and  when  the  loss  does  not  occur  in 
23 


266 


MI8UNJ)ERST00L 


the  house,  or  affect  him  very  nearlj’,  ha 
seldom  asks  questions  after  the  rush  that 
follows  the  first  announcement,  but  contents 
himself  with  a general  resume  of  the  occur- 
rence m some  such  a train  of  thought  as 
this  : “ Poor  mamma  was  crying  yesterday ; 
and  we  are  all  going  to  have  black  frocks.” 

He  takes  everything  upon  trust,  believing 
implicitly  everything  which  is  told  him  : he 
never  cavils  or  argues,  or  reasons.  He  be- 
lieves his  elders  infallible — in  fact,  he  must : 
have  they  not  proved  right  over  and  over 
again?  Not  being  able  to  understand,  he 
must  trust ; and  to  a boundless  faith  and  a 
vivid  imagination  all  things  are  possible ! 

It  may  be  that  some  such  ideas  as  these 
did  at  last  float  across  the  mind  of  Sir  Ever- 
ard,  as  he  sat  by  the  boy,  who  from  first  to 
ast  had  been  misunderstood. 

One  day  Humphrey  woke  with  a start,  as 
if  from  a dream,  and  saic  eagerly  : “ Didn't 
you  promise  they  shouldn’t  make  me  well  ?’ 

“ Yes,  my  darling.” 


MI&UNDEBSTOOD.  26; 

“ I thought  for  a moment — or  I drean\t— 
that  I was  getting  well — and — it  was ” 

“ It  was  what  ?”  asked  Sir  Everard,  trem 
bling  lest  a wish  for  life  should  be  springing 
up  in  the  boy’s  breast,  and  that  the  regrets, 
whose  non-existence  he  had  marvelled  at, 
should  be  going  to  overpower  him  at  last. 

“ It  was  so  horrible  !”  said  the  boy. 

Strange  that  we  should  be  subject  to  such 
sudden  revulsions  of  feeling!  The  very 
words  which  set  the  father’s  mind  at  rest, 
jarred  upon  his  feelings,  and  before  he  was 
aware,  he  had  said,  almost  reproachfully, 
“ Horrible,  Humphrey  ! to  stay  with  me  ?” 

“You  forget,  father — you  forget  what  I 
should  be.” 

“ But  I would  have  made  it  so  happy  for 
you,  my  little  Humphrey,”  burst  from  Sir 
Everard.  “ You  should  never ” 

He  stopped,  for  there  was  a far-away  lo 
in  the  boy’s  eyes,  and  he  was  gazing  inte/d 
ly  at  the  picture. 

Sir  Everard  thought  he  was  not  listening 
But  in  a few  minutes  he  spoke. 


268 


JkI8  UNDERSTOOD. 


“ 1 am  thinking  I should  not  ha\  e minded 
it  so  much,  if  mother  were  here.  I could 
lie  in  her  arms  all  day,  like  I used  then 
(pointing  to  the  picture) ; but  now ” 

“ You  could  lie  in  my  arms,  my  darling.” 

“In  yours,  father?  you’ve  always  got 
Miles.  You  never  take  me  in  your  arms.” 

“ I didn’t  ever  think  you  would  care  to 
come,  my  little  Humphrey.” 

“ Oh  ! but  I often  should  though  ; only  I 
knew  you  would  rather  have  him.” 

“ Oh ! hush ! hush ! When  have  you 
wanted  to  come?” 

“Well,  not  so  very  often,  father — only 
sometimes — a good  while  ago.” 

“ But,  my  child,  I would  just  as  soon  have 
had  you  as  Miles.  I only  take  him  because 
he  is  so  small.  Why  do  you  say  I would 
rather  have  him  ?” 

“ I thought  so,  father,  because  you  smiled 
quite  differently  when  you  looked  at  him, 
and  called  him  your  darling  mud  more 
than  you  did  me,  and  kissed  him— oh!  sc 
much  oftener.” 


MISUNDMBSTOOD. 


265 

Sir  Everard  could  have  implored  the  child 
to  stop.  He  took  the  thin  hand  in  his  and 
caressed  it. 

“ Miles  is  such  a baby,  you  know.  I did 
not  think  you  would  be  jealous  of  him.” 

“Jealous?”  said  Humphre}^  rather  puz- 
zled ; “jealous  means  angry — doesn’t  it?” 

“ Well — yes  ; I suppose  it  does.” 

“ Oh,  then,  I wasn’t  jealous,”  said  the  boy, 
earnestly,  “ because  I never  was  angry. 
Poor  little  Miles  couldn’t  remember  mother, 
you  see,  and  I could — so  it  was  quite  fair. 
Only  now  and  then — sometimes  it ” 

“ What,  dear  boy  ?’' 

“ It  made  me  want  mother  so  dreadfully^ 
said  Humphrey,  his  eyes  filling  with  tears 
“ But  now,”  he  added,  dreamily,  for  the 
drowsiness  was  beginning  to  overpower 
him,  again,  “ I’m  going  to  her,  or  at  least 
God’s  going  to  send  her  to  fetch  me.”  And 
he  closed  his  heavy  eyes. 

Sir  Everard  sat  on,  meditating.  He 
nused  on  the  by-gone  time  when  his  wife  haa 
'old  him  Humphrev  was  as  loving  as  Miles 
23* 


MISITI^DEBSI  OOD. 


270 

and  he  had  inwardly  denied  it;  ae  mused 
on  the  responsibility  of  bringing  up  chil- 
dren, and  the  necessity  of  living  constantly 
with  them  to  hope  to  understand  the  com- 
plications of  their  characters  ; and  sadly  he 
reflected  on  the  irreparable  loss  his  children 
had  sustained  in  the  mother,  who  would 
have  done  it  all  so  well. 

He  wms  not  a morbid  man,  and  he  did 
not  reproach  himself  for  what  had  been  un- 
avoidable; for  a man  belongs  more  to  the 
world  than  to  his  home ; and  his  home 
ought  not  to  throw  any  hindrance  in  his 
path  of  usefulness.  But  he  told  himsell 
plainly  that  he  had  failed ; that,  satisfied  if 
his  children  were  well  and  happy,  he  had 
been  content  to  go  no  further,  and  to  re- 
main in  ignorance  of  all  that  Humphrey’s 
simple  words  had  disclosed. 

He  was  filled  with  admiration  for  the 
generous  nature  which  had  borne  so  pa- 
tiently to  see  another  preferred,  and  had 
charmed  away  the  feeling  which  had  arisen 
jometimes,  by  the  reflection, ''  1 1 is  quite  fair.’ 


jdlSUNDMSSTOOD. 


271 


He  thought  how  the  same  circumstances 
acting  upon  a different  temperament  might 
have  produced  jealousy,  discontent,  and 
bitter  feeling;  the  little  brothers  might 
have  grown  up  to  hate  each  other,  and  he 
would  never  have  perceived  it.  And  with 
an  uncontrollable  feeling  he  knelt  down  by 
the  bedside,  and  covered  the  child  with 
kisses. 

Humphrey  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled. 
“ I was  dreaming  of  mother,”  he  said ; “ she 
was  asking  me  if  you  had  sent  her  any 
message.” 

“ Tell  her,  my  darling,  how  much  I love 
you,  and  how  sorry  I am  to  let  you  go.” 

“ So  sorry  to  let  me  go,”  he  repeated, 
with  the  old  expression  of  triumph  coming 
into  his  face ; “ and  that  you  love  mo  very 
much ; as  much  as  Miles,  shall  I say.” 

“ As  much  as  Miles,”  said  Sir  Everard. 

“ And  that’s  quite  true,  father  ?” 

“ Quite  true,  my  own  precious  child.” 

A smile  flitted  over  his  face,  and  he  shut 
his  eyes,  saying,  “ I’ve  often  forgotten  you? 


272 


UISTTNDUMSTOOL . 


messages  before,  father,  but  I shan’t  forget 
this  one !”  . . . . 

Presently  he  roused  up  again,  and  said, 
“ I should  like  to  do  that  thing  people  do 
before  they  die.” 

" What  thing?” 

“ I forget  the  name  of  it  in  English.  In 
French  it  is  the  same  as  the  Gospels  and 
Epistles.” 

“The  same  as  the  Gospels  and  Epistles? 
What  can  you  mean  ?” 

“ Virginie  calls  them  ‘ Le  Noveau  Testa* 
ment.’  What’s  the  English  for  that?” 

“ New  Testament.” 

“ But  what’s  testament  in  English  ? I can’t 
remember  words  now.” 

“ Testament  in  English  ? Oh ! will.” 

“ Oh,  yes  ! — will — that’s  it.  Well,  I want 
to  make  my  will ; will  you  write  it  down  as 
I say  it?” 

Sir  Everard  fetched  some  writing  mate- 
rials, and  drew  a little  table  to  the  bedside. 

Humphrey  dictated.  “ In  large  letters 
first,  father,  write— 


MISUNDMB8T00D. 


273 


‘HUMPHREY’S  WILL 

“ I Itdve  my  knife  with  the  two  blades  to 
Mileii.  One  of  the  blades  is  broken,  but  the 
other  is  quite  good,  and  Virginie  needn’t  be 
afraid  of  his  hurting  h mself,  because  it  has 
been  quite  blunt  and  rusty  ever  since  I cut 
Carlo’s  nails  with  it,  and  left  it  out  all  night 
in  the  lain.  And  Dolly  must  take  care  of 
my  garden,  and  not  let  the  flowers  die, 
And  father,  you’re  to  have  my  prayer-book 
and  my  microscope  ; and  I suppose  I must 
leave  Virginie  my  little  gold  pin,  because 
she’s  asked  me  for  it  so  often,  and  I shall 
never  grow  up  now  to  be  a man,  and  wear 
it  with  a blue  scarf,  like  I always  meant  to,» 
And  Doll}'^  may  have  one  of  my  books.  I 
don’t  think  she  ivould  understand  ‘ Peter 
Parley,’  so  perhaps  it  had  better  be  the: 
‘Boy  Hunters.’  Then  there’s  the  ferret,, 
and  the  guinea-pigs,  and  the  rabbits.  I 
think  Dolly  shall  have  them  too,  because  I 
know  she’ll  take  care  of  them,  What  else 
^ye  I got?  Oh,  yes  !,  there’s  my  fishing- 


274 


MIS  UND  STOOD. 


rod,  and  my  skates,  and  my  cricket  things 
all  those  are  for  Miles.  I’ve  got  twopence 
somewhere ; I don’t  exactl3r  know  where, 
but  give  them  to  lame  Tom  in  the  village ; 
and  tell  him  I’m  more  sorry  for  him  than 
ever  now.  And  will  somebody  be  kind  to 
my  poor  jackdaw  ? I know  you  all  think 
him  very  ugly,  and  he  is  cross,  and  he  does 
peck,  but  please,  for  my  sake,  take  care  of 
him,  because  I’m  the  only  friend  he  has  in 
the  world,  and  now  I’m  going  to  leave  him. 
Perhaps  lame  Tom  had  better  have  him, 
because  he’ll  understand  better  than  any 
of  you,  how  sad  it  is  to  be  — lame  — and 
obliged  to  be  still  in  one  place  all  day.  My 
little  sweet-pea  in  the  nursery  window  is 
for  Jane.  It  takes  a great  deal  of  water. 
I used  to  pump  my  whole  little  pump  of 
water  on  it  four  or  five  times  a day.  It 
never  was  strong,  that  little  sweet-pea. 
Sometimes  I think  it  had  too  much  water. 
But  Jane  will  settle  that. 

Well ! I think  that’s  all,  C^ood-bye 
everybody,” 


MiaUNVERSTO  OR. 


275 


“ Have  you  put  ‘ Good-bye  everybody  ?’  ’ 
te  asked,  eagerly. 

“ Yes,”  answered  Sir  Everard,  vainly  en- 
deavoring to  steady  his  voice,  “ I have  put 
it,  dear.  Is  there  anything  more  ?” 

“Don’t  people  write  their  names,  father’ 
Could  I write  mine,  do  you  think,  myself?’ 

“ I don’t  think  so,  my  darling,”  his  father 
returned,  in  the  same  husky  tone ; “ but  1 
will  write  them  for  you.” 

“All  of  them,  please,  father — Humphrey, 
and  Everard,  and  Charles.  Isn’t  it  a lot !” 
exclaimed  Humphrey,  with  a touch  of  his 
old  merriment. 

“ There  it  is  in  full,”  said  Sir  Everard ; 
“ Humphrey  Everard  Charles  Buncombe.” 

“ May  I try  and  make  a mark,  father  ?” 

“ If  you  like,  dear,”  said  the  father,  sadly ; 
for  he  knew  it  was  impossible  that  the  poor 
little  hand  and  arm  should  perform  such  an 
office,  and  Humphrey  saw  it  himself  directly 
he  tried  to  move,  and  abandoned  the  at- 
.empt  of  his  own  accord. 

“Now  hide  it  away  somewhere,  father 


MISUNDMRSTOOJ). 


276 

be  exclaimed,  eagerly,  “for  no  one  must 
read  it  yet.  I’m  glad  I’ve  made  my  will,” 
he  added,  as,  with  a sigh  of  weariness,  for 
he  was  worn  out  by  so  much  talking,  he 
closed  his  eyes,  and  disposed  himself  to 
sleep. 

Half-an-hour  after,  a letter  was  put  into 
Sir  Everard’s  hand.  It  was  from  his  broth- 
er-in-law, and  contained  these  few  lines  : 

“ My  dear  Everard, — I have  a few  days 
to  spare,  and  will  come  down  to  Wareham 
on  my  way  to  Portsmouth.  Tell  Humphrey 
I hope  to  be  in  time  for  his  Harvest  Home, 
and  beg  him  to  find  me  a pretty  partner. 

“ Yours,  etc.” 

Sir  Everard  turned  the  letter  over  to  look 
at  the  date.  It  could  not  surely  be  the  am 
swer  to  his  letter ! But  on  examining  the 
post-mark,  he  found  that  it  had  been  written 
some  days  previously  from  Portsmouth,  and 
that  it  was  directed  to  his  club  in  London, 
from  whence  it  had  been  forwarded. 


MIS  VNDSRSTO  OD. 


277 

‘‘He  has  never  got  mine/'  he  reflected 
‘‘  Poor  fellow ! what  a shock  it  will  be  when 
he  arrives." 

At  that  very  moment  Uncle  Charlie  was 
reading  Sir  Everard's  letter  at  an  hotel  in 
London.  It  dropped  from  his  hand,  and  he 
remained  wrapped  in  sad  meditation. 

“ Too  late  to-night,"  he  said  at  last,  look- 
ing at  his  watch,  “but  by  the  firs'  train  to- 
morrow morning." 

He  roused  himself,  and  went  to  the  win- 
dow. There,  looking  down  upon  the  cease- 
less stream  of  carriages  in  the  busy  street 
below,  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the  Sunday 
at  Wareham,  and  the  boy's  strength  and 
beauty.  He  thought  of  him  as  he  had  last 
seen  him,  radiant  with  health  and  spirits, 
waving  his  hat  on  the  door-step  as  the  dog- 
cart drove  away.  But  perhaps  recollection 
brought  the  child  most  clearly  before  him 
reeping  up  his  leg,  when  he  came  to  say 
‘ Good-night,"  and  begging  for  more  stories 
on  the  morrow. 

“ Going  to-morrow  ! what  a short  visit  ^ 
24 


278 


MIS  UNDERSTC  OD. 


“ I cvill  pay  you  a longer  visit  next  time. 
“ But  when  will  next  time  be?” 

“ Yes,  when  will  next  time  be?” 


‘ Ah ! when  indeed  ?”  sighed  Unc  e Char liCi 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


Brightly  rose  the  week  which  had 
been  fixed  for  the  Harvest  Home,  but 
it  was  welcomed  by  no  festivities  in  the 
fields  and  meadows  of  Wareham  Abbey. 

The  flags  and  tents  which  had  been  pre- 
pared were  stored  away  again ; the  holiday 
dresses  were  put  by  unfinished ; Dolly,  the 
laundry -maid,  hid  away,  wdth  a great  sob, 
the  flaming  yellow  print  with  a red  spot  she 
had  been  all  the  way  to  the  market  town 
to  buy ; and  village  mothers,  standing  in 
groups  at  their  cottage  doors,  whispered 
together  with  tearful  eyes,  and  made  faint 
attempts  to  keep  their  own  restless  boys  in 
sight. 

Thei'e  was  mourning  far  and  wide  Ibr  the 
young  life  that  was  passing  away,  and  rough 

(*7?) 


28o 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


voices  faltered  as  they  spoke  6f  tne  bright 
face  and  ringing  laugh  which  should  be 
known  no  more  among  them. 

Humphrey  was  sinking  rapidly ; but  like 
a lamp  which,  before  it  goes  finally  out, 
flickers  into  something  like  a bright  flame, 
did  his  brain,  after  those  many  days  of  wan- 
dering unconsciousness,  seem  to  regain 
something  of  its  wonted  vigor. 

“ What  does  it  mean?”  he  asked  his  father 
over  and  over  again,  whenever  he  opened 
his  eyes. 

“ What  does  what  mean,  my  darling  ?” 

“ Why,  this  funny  noise  here” — touching 
his  head. 

“ It  means  that  your  poor  head  aches.” 

“ Oh  ! but  it  means  something  else ; it’s  a 
sort  of  rushing  and  singing  noise,  always 
rushing  and  singing.  What  is  it  like  ? Do 
help  me  to  remember !” 

Sir  Everard  racked  his  brain  to  satisfy 
the  poor  little  questioner,  but  to  no  purpose. 

You’re  not  trying,  father,’  said  the  little 
fellow  peevishly. 


MISUNDSUSTOCH.  281 

Sit  Evcrard  wondered  to  himsexf  whethei 
the  child  could  be  thinking  of  the  rushing 
of  water  in  the  ears  described  by  people 
rescued  from  drowning,  and  answered — 

“ Is  it  like  the  sound  of  water  ?” 

“ Yes,  yes !”  exclaimed  Humphrey ; “ it’s 

like  the  sound ,”  he  stopped,  and  then 

added,  “ of  many  waters.” 

He  seemed  struck  by  his  own  words. 

“ What  is  that,  father  ? Where  have  I 
heard  that  ? What  is  it  like  ?” 

Sir  Everard  thought  he  had  satisfied  him, 
and  was  distressed  to  hear  the  question 
again,  fearing  he  would  exhaust  himself  by 
so  much  talk. 

“ I told  you  before,  darling,  it  is  like  a 
sound  of  water.” 

“ That’s  all  wrong,”  he  said,  mournfully, 
half  crying,"  it’s  not  water,  it’s  waters — many 
waters.” 

“Yes,  yes,  my  child,”  said  Sir  Everard 
soothingly,  alarmed  at  his  agitation. 

“ But  say  it  again,  father ; say  it  righl 
through.” 


24 


282 


MIS  aNBEMSTOOn. 


Sir  Everard  repeated,  “A  sound  of  many 
wateis.” 

“ There  !”  exclaimed  Humphrey  “ mm 
what  is  it  ? You  must  know  what  it  means 
now !” 

Sir  Everard  was  more  puzzled  than  ever, 
having  thought  that  they  had  come  to  an 
end  of  the  discussion. 

“ I really  don’t  know,  my  boy  !” 

“ If  you'd  got  a sound  of  many  waters  in 
your  head,  father,  you’d  like  to  hear  what  it 
means  ! Oh,  where  did  I hear  all  about  it  ? 
Where  have  I been  ? Who  was  near  me  ? 
You  were  there,  father,  I know,  for  I re- 
member your  face  ; and  all  the  while  some- 
body was  telling  us  what  the  rushing  and 
singing  in  my  head  means  !” 

Sir  Everard  thought  the  boy  was  wander- 
ing, and  did  not  try  to  answer  him  any 
more.  He  was  accustomed  to  sit  for  hours 
by  the  bedside,  while  Humphrey  rambled 
incoherently  on.  It  was  no  use  trying  to  fol- 
low the  poor  little  brain  through  the  mazes 
of  thought  into  which  it  now  plunged. 


MISUNDERSTOOD.  383 

Presently  Humphrey  startled  him  by  say- 
ing— 

“ What  does  Charlie  mean  ?'* 

“ Well,  nothing  particular,  darling,” 

“ But  it  does,  it  does,”  said  the  child 
“ Does  it  mean  the  same  thing  as  a sound  ol 
many  waters  ?” 

“ Y es,  yes,”  said  his  father,  still  thinking 
he  was  wandering. 

“ Then  if  I say  ‘ a sound  of  Charlie,’  ” said 
Humphrey,  “ it  means  the  same  as  ‘ i sound 
of  rushing  and  singing  in  my  head  ? ” 

“ No,  no,  dear,”  answered  Sir  1 verard, 
surprised  to  hnd  him  so  rational. 

“ Why,  you  said  ‘ Yes,’  just  now,”  said  the 
child,  with  a sob.  “ If  you  tell  stories, 
father,  you’ll  go  to  hell  like  . ...  1 Vho  was 
it  told  stories  about  the  wild  men  a dinner 
party  ?”  he  concluded,  excitedly. 

“ Uncle  Charlie,”  answered  hij  father , 
‘‘  but  he  didn’t  tell  stories,  dear,  it  was  only 
a joke.” 

He  turned  his  head  away  as  he  spoke,  foi 
.hs  mention  of  the  dinner-party  brought  up 


284 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


the  image  of  the  boy  bursting  into  the 
library  full  of  life  and  health  and  beauty, 
and  the  contrast  with  the  little  worn-out 
figure  lying  on  the  bed  overcame  him  for  a 
moment. 

But  the  latter  part  of  the  speech,  and  his 
father’s  emotion,  were  lost  upon  Humphrey 
and  he  only  repeated  to  himself  over  and 
over  again,  “ Uncle  Charlie,  Uncle  Charlie. 
Is  that  what  I mean?  What  is  Uncle 
Charlie  ? Who  is  Uncle  Charlie  ?” 

At  this  moment  there  is  a sound  as  of  an 
arrival ; voices  and  footsteps  outside ; but 
Humphrey  hears  them  not.  Some  one 
knocks  at  the  library  door.  One  of  the 
maids  in  the  distance  steals  gently  towards 
it,  for  Sir  Everard  holds  up  his  hand  to 
enforce  silence,  hoping  that  the  busy  brain 
may  get  a few  moments’  rest.  The  door 
opens,  and  a young  man  enters.  Sir  Ever- 
ard rises,  and  goes  to  meet  him.  After  a 
few  moments’  whispered  conversation,  both 
advance  noiselessly  to  the  sofa,  and  stand 
looking  at  the  little  face  on  the  pillow  with 
its  closed  eyes.  Closed,  but  not  sleeping. 


MlSl  .YDERSTOOD. 


285 

The  weary  brain  is  tr3dng  to  rake  \ip,  irom 
its  fragmentary  recollections  of  the  past, 
something  that  may  throw  a light  on  his 
present  perplexities.  Dim,  confused  figures 
flit  across  the  stage  of  his  fancy,  glimmer, 
and  disappear. 

“ Stop  !’'  he  cries  feebly,  as  if  the  moving 
shadows  wearied  his  brain ; oh,  please 
stand  still!’' 

Roused  by  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  he 
f pens  his  eyes,  and,  ere  he  closes  them  again, 
fixes  them  for  a moment  on  the  form  stand- 
ing by  his  bedside.  Hush  1 do  not  break 
the  spell  1 The  mists  are  clearing,  the 
shadows  becoming  more  distinct.  From 
the  fleeting  chaos  before  him  one  figure 
now  stands  out  more  clear,  more  immov- 
able than  the  rest — the  figure  of  a tall,  fair 
man.  Hush  I he  has  found  the  clue  ! The 
grey  walls  c f the  old  church  are  rising 
around  him  ; the  sides  of  the  old  pew  are 
towering  above  him.  Just  in  front  of  him 
is  the  large  prayer-book,  surmounted  by  the 
monogram  ‘"Adelaide,”  and  by  his  side  the 
tall,  fair  man  ! Hush  it  is  all  coming  back  now 


286  VNDjlHSTuOI). 

In  the  distance  sits  his  father  ^vith  hii 
legs  crossed,  and  his  head  turneo  towards 
the  pulpit,  where  stands  the  old  clergyman, 
with  his  Bible  in  his  hand.  Breathlessly  the 
Doy  listens  for  the  words  he  longs  to  hear ; 
but  no  sound  comes  from  the  lips  of  the 
preacher.  Disappointment  comes  down 
upon  his  spirit,  when,  in  his  vision,  the 
figure  sitting  by  him  takes  out  a pencil,  and 
underlines  something  in  his  Bible. 

Of  course,’'  cries  Humphrey  out  loud, 
he  knows ; he  can  tell  me.  Uncle  Charlie !” 
The  real  figure  by  the  bedside  starts  and 
comes  forward,  but  Sir  Everard  holds  him 
back. 

He  is  only  dreaming,  don’t  disturb  him.” 

It  was  Uncle  Charlie,”  murmurs  Hum- 
phrey ; and  he  can  tell  me.  Many  waters 
and  a pencil  and  a Bible  ....  and  Uncle 
Charlie  sitting  there  ....  and  then  . . . , 
there  came  in  his  face  . . . .” 

To  the  consternation  of  the  by- slanders, 
Humphrey  went  off  into  fits  of  weak  laughter. 
The  association  of  ideas  recalled  another 
circumstance  ; his  mind  has  wandered  away 


MIS  UNDERSTOOD. 


287 

from  the  point  on  which  it  was  fixed,  and  he 
is  watching  again  the  encounter  between  his 
uncle  and  the  wasp. 

‘‘  He’ll  be  stung !”  he  cries,  shaking  with 
aughter,  and  he  puts  his  wasted  hand  to  his 
mouth,  as  if  he  knew  he  was  in  church,  and 
ought  to  check  himself.  The  figure  by  the 
bedside  turns  to  Sir  Everard,  and  whispers, 
but  the  only  answer  is — 

‘^Nothing  but  a dream.  For  God’s  sake 
do  not  awake  him.” 

Thoroughly  exhausted,  Humphrej^  is  lying 
still  again,  but  now  his  mind  is  once  more 
perturbed,  for  his  uncle’s  figure  has  disap- 
peared from  his  vision,  and  he  tries  to  con- 
jure it  before  him  in  vain. 

‘‘  He  is  gone !”  he  exclaims,  with  a sob, 
just  as  I was  going  to  ask  him.  Oh,  come 
back,  come  back,  Uncle  Charlie !” 

Some  one  kneels  by  his  side,  some  one 
lays  a hand  on  his  brow  and  he  opens  his 
eyes  with  a start.  The  church,  the  pew,  the 
prayer-book  — all  are  gone — but  in  their 
place — his  uncle  ! 

Oh,  Uncle  Charlie !”  sobbed  the  child 


288 


MIS  VNDEBSTO  OD. 


trying  to  throw  his  feeble  arms  round  iia 
neck,  is  it  really  you  ? Where  do  you  come 
from?  You'll  tell  me  all  about  it ; youll  help 
me  to  remember!’' 

Tell  you  what,  my  dear,  dear  little  fel 
low  ?” 

‘‘  I don’t  know  what ! I can’t  tell  what  j 
It’s  something  I want  to  remember,  and  1 
don^t  know  what  it  is  I” 

“ What  was  it  like  ?”  asked  Uncle  Charlie. 

It  was  like  a church,”  answered  Hum- 
phrey,  excitedly,  ‘^and  it  was  like  a sum 
mer’s  morning,  and  you  and  me  and  Fathei 
sitting  still,  while  somebody  was  telling  us 
what  the  sound  in  my  head  means.  I cant 
remember  what  he  said,  but  if  I only  could 
I shouldn’t  mind  the  rushing  and  singing  a 
bit;  for  when  I heard  it  that  time,  every- 
thing about  it  was  happy,  and  bright,  and 
beautiful.  But  you  were  there.  Uncle 
Charlie,  and  you  must  know,  for  you  wrote 
something  down  about  it.” 

“ I told  you  so,  Everard,’  said  the  young 
Man  to  his  brother-in-law ; I knew  he  was 
trying  to  remember  the  sermon  on  the 


MISUNDERSTOOD.  289 

Rev^elations  we  heard  tbe  Sunday  I was 
down  here.” 

“ But  you’re  not  telling  me,  Uncle  Charlie,' 
sobbed  Humphrey. 

“ I will,  my  boy,  I will ; but  you  must  let 
me  go  and  fetch  my  Bible,  for  I don’t  re- 
member the  words  exactly.” 

“ Must  you  go  ?”  faintly  uttered  Hum- 
phrey. “ Oh,  don’t  go.  Uncle  Charlie ; you’ll 
disappear  like  you  did  just  now,  and  perhaps 
never  come  back  again.” 

Uncle  Charlie  reassured  him,  and  gently 
disengaged  himself  from  his  grasp. 

“ Be  quick ! be  quick !”  panted  the  child, 
and  his  voice  failed  him  with  his  excitement. 

Sir  Everard  tried  to  soothe  him,  and  hoped 
he  would  be  quiet.  But  a few  minutes  after 
his  uncle  was  gone,  it  became  evident  that 
Humphrey  was  struggling  to  say  something 
before  his  uncle  should  return.  His  excite-  \ 
ment  and  exhaustion  made  him  more  inco- 
herent than  usual,  and  after  once  or  twice 
repeating  his  uncle’s  name,  his  voice  failed 
altogether,  and  Ihouglr  his  white  lips  moved, 
no  sound  came. 


25 


290 


MISUNDSMSTOOD. 


Sir  Everard  was  greatly  distressed ; the 
boy  fixed  his  eye  so  pleadingly  on  him,  he 
was  so  earnest  in  what  he  was  trying  to  say, 
that  it  went  to  the  father’s  heart  not  to  be 
able  to  understand  him.  He  strained  every 
nerve  to  catch  the  words,  but  in  vain. 

The  excitement  of  hearing  his  uncle  re- 
turning gave  Humphrey  a momentary 
strength,  and  he  held  his  father’s  hand  with 
all  the  strength  he  could  muster,  and  said, 
“ Promise !” 

“ I promise,  my  darling,”  said  Sir  Everard, 
hastily,  too  thankful  to  catch  even  a word. 

And  nobody  ever  knew  that  the  boy’s  last 
request  had  beeij  that  never,  never  was  his 
uncle  to  know  that  it  was  his  story  that  had 
first  made  him  think  of  the  branch  that 
stretched  over  the  pond  where  the  water- 
lilies  grew. 

Quite  worn  out  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
.aid  back  upon  his  pillow,  and  with  closed 
eyes  waited  while  his  uncle  opened  the 
Bible  and  found  the  underlined  passage : — 

“ And  I heard  a voice  from  heaven  as  the 
voice  of  many  waters  ....  and  I heard  the 


MlSUNDSBSTOiD. 


291 


harpers  harping  with  their  harps.  And  they 
sang  as  it  were  a new  song  . . . and  no 
man  could  learn  that  song,  but  the  hundred 
and  forty  and  four  thousand  which  were  re- 
deemed from  the  earth.” 

• ••••• 

No  more  restless  questions,  no  more  per- 
plexed search  after  what  is  lying  somewhere 
in  the  past.  He  did  not  speak,  he  did  not 
answer  his  father’s  eager  enquiry  as  to 
whether  that  was  what  he  had  been  trying 
to  remember ; and  he  lay  so  still,  so  motion- 
less, that  for  one  moment  they  thought  he 
had  passed  away  without  hearing  the  words 
he  had  longed  for.  But  the  unsatisfied  look 
had  gone  from  his  face,  and  his  father  saw 
that  his  mind  was  at  rest.  He  was  breath- 
ing gently  as  in  a deep  sleep. 

That  is  all  the  watchers  saw.  And  the 
child  himself!  How  shall  we  attempt  to  fol- 
low the  hazy  imaginings  of  his  weak  and 
wandering  mind  ? 

Dreamily  are  returning  to  him  the 
thoughts  which  had  possession  of  him  that 
summer  Sunday  as  he  sat  in  his  corner  in 


2g2 


MIS  UITDSBST  OOD. 


the  old  grey  church.  Visions  of  beauty  arc 
floating  before  him,  evoked  that  day  in  his 
mind  by  the  powerful  imagery  of  Scripture ; 
now  recalled  by  association:  the  material 
joys  which  form  a child’s  idea  of  heaven — 
the  gates,  and  the  harps,  and  the  angels. 
Dim  conceptions  of  white-robed  thousands 
wandering  in  the  golden  Jerusalem,  by  the 
jasper  sea.  Not  strange  to  him  that  throng 
of  angels,  for  foremost  among  them  all,  more 
beautiful  than  any,  is  the  figure  of  his  moth- 
er, standing  as  in  the  picture,  looking  down 
upon  him  with  a smile.  Heaven  to  him  is 
peopled  with  her  image,  for  he  has  no  other 
notion  of  all  that  is  fair  and  holy.  In  that 
great  multitude  whom  no  man  can  number, 
there  is  not  one  that  can  be  called  a stranger, 
all  have  the  soft  eyes  and  the  familiar  smile 
What  recks  he  more  of  the  throbbing  and 
singing  in  his  aching  head — the  sounds  as  of 
rushing  waters?  Is  it  not  all  explained? 
It  is  the  voice  of  many  waters  and  the  voice 
of  the  great  multitude,  singing  the  wondrous 
song  which  only  they  can  sing ! The  preach- 
er heard  it  that  Sunday  morning;  did  he 


MISUNDBRSTOOD. 


293 


not  say,  1 heard  a voice  from  heaven”  ? and 
Humphrey  hears  it  now ! Imperfectly  as 
yet  it  sounds  upon  his  ear,  faintly  the  echoes 
are  borne  to  him,  but  it  will  sound  more 
i clearly  soon ! 

It  was  not  in  vain  that  the  old  clergyman 
had  warmed  and  glowed  with  his  subject, 
and  by  the  very  earnestness  of  his  own  feel- 
ing carried  his  little  hearer  with  him ; for 
his  words,  though  they  had  lain  dormant 
during  the  weeks  which  followed,  apparently 
wasted  and  forgotten,  were,  by  the  power 
of  association,  rising  when  they  were  needed 
to  bless  and  soothe  his  death-bed. 

Faint  is  the  heart  of  the  preacher,  often- 
times, as  he  watches  his  congregation  dis- 
perse; for  he  fears  that  his  words,  even 
though  they  chained  the  minds  of  his  hear- 
ers for  the  moment,  will  pass  away  as  they 
oass  the  threshold,  and  be  lost  in  the  worldly 
nterests  which  meet  them  at  the  very  door. 

And  yet  it  may  be,  that  all  unknown  to 
him,  perhaps  in  the  very  hearts  he  would 
least  have  expected,  his  words  have  tak(?n 
root,  and  will  bear  fruit  some  day. 


294 


MISUNDEBSl  OOD. 


Deep  silence  reigned  in  the  room,  while 
the  two  men  watched  the  child. 

It  was  very  long  before  he  spoke  again, 
but  when  he  did,  it  was  evident  that  he  was 
not  himself. 

“ It  is  getting  very  dark,”  he  murmured, 
and  Sir  Everard’s  heart  sank  within  him,  for 
the  sun  was  only  just  beginning  to  set.  “It 
is  time  for  us  to  go  to  bed.  Where’s  Miles?” 

For  a few  brief  moments  the  throbbing 
has  ceased,  and  with  its  cessation,  voices  and 
visions  have  fled  away. 

Sir  Everard  stole  away  to  fetch  the  little 
fellow,  and  found  him  in  his  nightgown  re 
peating  his  evening  prayer  to  Virginie. 
With  a few  hasty  explanations.  Sir  Everard 
took  him  in  his  arms,  and  carried  him  away. 

“ But,  Fardie,”  said  Miles,  as  they  hur. 
tied  downstairs  “ I hadn’t  quite  finished ; I 
have  not  said  my  hymn.” 

“ Never  mind,  darling ! you  shall  say  it  to 
Humphrey  to-night.” 

He  carried  him  gentl}  into  the  drawing 
room,  and  set  him  down  upon  the  sofa. 

Miles  was  frightened  at  the  silence 


MISVINDEBSTOOD. 


295 

and  darkness,  and  nestled  up  closer  to  his 
brother. 

“ Humphie ! Humphie ! wake  up  and  give 
me  your  hand.” 

“ Don’t  be  frightened,  Miles,”  murmured 
Humphrey,  dreamily : “ come  close  to  me, 
I’ll  take  care  of  you.” 

He  strove  to  move  to  the  edge  of  the  sofa, 
as  if  he  thought  his  little  brother’s  bed  was 
close  up  against  it,  and  he  threw  his  feeble 
arm  round  Miles  in  the  dear  old  protecting 
way. 

“We  won’t  talk  much  to-night.  Miles,  be- 
cause I’m  so  very  sleepy.  Good-night.” 

He  said  something  faintly  about  seeing 
his  mother,  but  Miles  couldn’t  catch  the 
words. 

“ Didn’t  quite  understand,  Humphie.” 

Something  of  a movement  of  impatience 
passed  over  Humphrey’s  face. 

“ Of  course  3"ou  don’t — because — ^you  can’t 
— remember  her.” 

“ No,”  said  little  Miles,  meekly,  “ but  you’ll 
tell  me,  Humphie?” 

“ To-morrow,”  he  murmured,  “ I shall  be 


MIS  UNDERSTOOD. 


296 

able  to  explain — better — to-morrow — good 
night — good-night.” 

And  in  the  silence  that  reigned,  every  one 
present  heard  the  little  brothers  exchange 
their  last  kiss. 

“ I can’t  see  them,”  said  Sir  Everard, 
huskily ; “ some  one  draw  up  the  blind.” 

The  setting  sun  outside  was  illumining 
the  landscape  ere  it  sank  to  rest,  and  shed- 
ding its  beams  on  the  haunts  and  the  com- 
panions of  the  boy’s  young  life.  On  the 
lambs  he  had  chased  in  the  meadows,  on  the 
birds  he  had  watched  since  they  had  learned 
to  fly,  on  the  fields  and  the  gardens  which 
seemed  so  empty  without  him,  it  was  shin- 
ing with  a softened  glow  ; — but  it  seemed  to 
have  reserved  its  richest  glory  for  the  chil- 
dren, for,  as  the  blind  went  slowly  up,  such 
a flood  of  light  poured  into  the  room,  that 
the  eyes  of  the  father  were  dazzled,  and  it 
was  some  minutes  before  he  could  distin 
guish  them. 

There,  in  the  golden  sunset,  they  lay.  The 
sun  kissed  their  little  faces,  and  touched 


Ml  8 UNB MUST 0 on. 


29; 

witli  a loving  hand  their  curly  hair.  Il 
lingered  lovingly  round  them,  as  if  it  knew 
that  the  lambs  would  be  frisking  when  it 
rose  again,  the  birds  would  welcome  it  with 
their  glad  song ; but  that  never  again  would 
it  rest  on  the  nestling  forms  and  clasped 
hands  of  the  two  little  brothers  ! 

Sir  Everard,  bending  over  them,  saw  a 
troubled  expression  over  Humphrey’s  face. 

“ What  can  it  be  that  ails  the  child  ?”  he 
mentally  questioned ; “ is  it  physical  pain, 
or  is  something  troubling  his  thoughts  ? Is 
the  fear  of  death  coming  over  him  ?” 

He  did  not  like  to  speak  for  fear  of  dis- 
turbing him,  but  as  the  look  deepened  al- 
most to  pain,  he  could  not  restrain  himself 
any  longer. 

“ Humphrey,  my  darling,”  he  exclaimed, 
in  his  longing  to  do  something,  be  it  ever  so 
little,  to  soothe  his  boy’s  dying  hour,  “ what 
is  it?  What  can  I do  for  you ?” 

Nothing!  With  all  his  love  and  all  his 
yearning,  nothing ! 

For  surging  once  more  in  the  boy’s  brain 
is  the  noise  as  of  rushing  and  singing,  and 


298 


Ml  S UN D EB STOOD. 


with  its  sound  a fear  has  risen  in  his  breast 
Shall  he  ever,  ever  catch  the  njusic  of  that 
wondrous  song?  Doubts  of  his  own  power 
to  learn  it  are  troubling  his  wandering 
thoughts;  dim  misgivings  that  children  can 
not  learn  it,  founded  on  his  own  inability  to 
follow  the  singing  in  church.  Always  too 
soon  or  too  late ! Do  children  ever  learn  it  ? 
‘‘  ^ And  no  man  could  learn  that  song  save 
the  hundred  and  forty  and  four.  . / nothing 
about  children  there 

Vain  is  the  father’s  endeavor  to  reach  a 
trouble  of  this  kind ; vainly,  bending  over 
him,  does  he  seek  to  discover  its  cause,  in 
his  longings  to  remove  or  alleviate  it. 

Is  the  child,  then,  to  pass  away  uneasy, 
with  a cloud  upon  his  happiness ; or  must  a 
miracle  be  worked  in  his  favor?  Must 
Heaven  open  and  show  him  the  army  of 
innocents  standing  at  the  right  hand  of 
God?  No.  God’s  ways  are  not  as  oui 
ways:  infinite  in  power.  He  yet  reveals 
Himself  by  the  simplest  means. 

As  once  before  He  sent  the  child  consola- 
tion so  will  He  send  it  now.  As  onge  be-i 


MUSUNDERSTOOD, 


29c 


fore,  not  by  signs  and  wonders,  but  by  the 
gift  of  sleep,  so  now,  not  by  miracles  and 
visions,  but  by  the  voice  of  his  baby  brother 
Talk  to  me,  Humphie.  Don't  go  tc 
sleep  yet.  I haven't  said  my  hymn.  Fardie 
said  I might  say  it  to  you  to-night.  Shall  I 
say  it  now?" 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  Miles 
raised  himself  on  his  knees,  and  put  his  lit- 
tle hands  together.  Then  arose  the  sound 
of  the  baby  voice : 

‘‘  Around  the  throne  of  God  in  Heaven 
Thousands  of  children  stand  ; 

Children  whose  sins  are  all  forgiven, 

A holy,  happy  band. 

Singing  Glory,  Glory,  Glory.’* 

• • • • • 

Faster  and  louder  comes  the  rushing  and 
singing,  but  the  misgiving  is  lulled  to  rest. 
Faster  and  faster,  louder  and  louder,  surg- 
ng  around  him.  But  hushed  are  the  doubts 
at  once  and  for  ever,  and  the  fear  has 
vanished  away ! Loud  in  his  brain  sounds 
the  song  of  the  children,  throbbing  there 
almost  to  pain ; beating  so  loud  as  to  stun 
and  confuse  him.  Everything  seems  to  be 


30C 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


turning  and  whirling;  and,  as  if  to  save 
himself,  he  opens  his  eyes.  On  what  a sight 
did  they  fall ! There,  close  before  him, 
bathed  in  light,  and  a glory  round  her  brow 
stands  the  figure  of  his  mother,  looking 
down  upon  him  with  a smile.  And  with  a 
glad  smile  of  welcome  he  stretched  out  his 
arms,  and  cried,  “ Has  God  sent  you  to 
fetch  me  at  last,  mother?  Oh,  mother.  I’ll 
come ! I’ll  come !” 

• • • ^ » 
Those  who  were  standing  round,  saw 
only  the  expression  of  pain  change  to  the 
old  sunny  smile.  His  lips  moved,  and  he 
lifted  his  arms,  as  his  eyes  were  raised  for  a 
moment,  to  the  picture  above  him,  on  which 
the  sun  was  pouring  a dazzling  light.  They 
closed ; but  the  smile,  intensely  radiant,  lin- 
gered about  the  parted  lips;  the  short 
breathing  grew  shorter  . . . stopped  . . . and 
then  . . . 

It’s  no  use  my  saying  the  rest,''  said 
little  Miles  in  a whisper,  ‘for  Humphie  has 
gone  to  sleep." 

Finis^ 


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